


A Storm in Amber {ACT I: Solstice}

by martieek



Series: A Storm in Amber [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altea (Voltron), Altean Lance (Voltron), Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Castles, Curses, Developing Relationship, Drama & Romance, Emperor Lotor (Voltron), F/M, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, Fantasy, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Galra Empire, Galra Keith (Voltron), Gen, Gladiator Shiro (Voltron), Half-Human, Half-Siblings, Identity Issues, Kings & Queens, Lions, M/M, Magic, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Original Universe, Other, POV Allura (Voltron), POV Hunk (Voltron), POV Keith (Voltron), POV Matt Holt, POV Shiro (Voltron), Post-Defeat of Zarkon, Post-War, Pre-War, Princes & Princesses, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Romance, Royalty, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, Sentient Voltron Lions, Siblings, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Soul Bond, Soulmates, Spells & Enchantments, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-07-14 18:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16046489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martieek/pseuds/martieek
Summary: The War of Lions has fallen dormant in the wake of Emperor Lotor's uprising, but a different rift spreads throughout the land of Arus: are the other royal families so vulnerable that they should be protected in case someone else like Lotor comes along?  Or should the royals be under suspicion for fear of following in Lotor's violent steps?Prince Matthew Holt can only speak for himself, but he's certainly not interested in taking over the kingdom as it is.  If anything, he'd rather withdraw from the life of royalty.  Renowned gladiator Shiro, on the other hand, is only concerned with keeping his half-brother Keith safe from the Empire.  But when the Black Lion, Rajalti, carries Shiro out of the arena, he and all of Arus know things are about to change; of course it's not until Shiro meets Matt than anyone can suspect how great those changes will be.





	1. A Warrior’s Pride

**Author's Note:**

> [A Storm in Amber playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/asilverboy/playlist/2wJ3c3kmgRzjp6rsn08rUj?si=wMBzRLaGQsmFTYAF-qyNmA)   
>  [Check out my cover art for the series!](https://sewerpigeonart.tumblr.com/post/181785078976/a-storm-in-amber-avoltron-fairy-tale-au)

.:.

_At dusk the storms will carry in_

_A gift for every eve_

_The autumn leaves shall fall like stars_

_Or perhaps the stars like leaves_

 

_The forest sings, and black and white_

_Turn grey amidst the sky_

_Rain of metal dust will fall_

_And from it will heroes rise_

 

.:.

 

** Act I: Solstice **

 

.:. 

 

This is the fight they’ve been waiting for.

All around Shiro, the brimming stadium buzzes, anticipation crackling through the crowd.  Time moves slowly under the clear sky that provides an ironic backdrop to the tension and darkness flickering in Shiro’s gut at the far side of the colosseum.  He has no idea what sort of beast is in store for him behind the gate.  So, still, he waits.

In spite of this audience being larger than any before, an eerie hush begins to settle as minutes pass.  Within the past month, word of today’s match spread like wildfire throughout the kingdoms, town criers boldly declaring, “It is to be our Champion’s greatest challenge yet: to face a monster of incomparable ferocity, a beast of immeasurable magnificence, a living myth—a battle not soon to be forgotten.”

Gravely, Shiro considers, the last battle fit that description as well.

Shiro shifts his weight, adjusting his grip on the hilt of his blade.  Normally, there is little wait time before matches, so Shiro can only assume the ringleaders are aiming to build the tension to its highest point.  It’s certainly working—Shiro himself alongside the thousands of anxious onlookers grow restless underneath the one question hanging in the air: _Where is the beast?_

It’s been close to two years since Shiro had negotiated with the Galran Empire to provide him and Keith hospice so long as Shiro fought and survived in their arena—insisting upon the conditions that he would never fight an unwilling participant, and he would never kill an opponent.  Despite the notorious Galran reputation for bloodlust, the ringmasters had found Shiro’s proposition interesting enough to accept, and Shiro’s subsequent streak of victories in spite of these conditions has been the very thing that’s made him so popular throughout all of Arus.

Until now, Shiro has only fought rogue warriors, criminals seeking redemption, and prideful volunteers as consenting challengers in the colosseum—never a beast; never any creature that does not have the _capacity_ to volunteer.  The Galra have continued to uphold Shiro’s conditions thus far, so he warily regards the gates wondering what kind of beast could willingly enter this ring—if any.

Shiro swallows hard; perhaps after the death of his last opponent, all bets are off.

He doesn’t know what to expect, neither of today’s arena match nor the Galra’s plans for his future in general.  All Shiro knows is that he needs to keep Keith safe, and with the shift in circumstances for the colosseum, Shiro fears the Empire might finally try laying claim to the Galran blood of his half-brother.  After receiving the reward for today’s victory, Shiro is taking Keith away from here.

The burst of swelling applause and cheers pulls Shiro from his thoughts, nearly deafening him as the Galran stadium announcer rides out on his armored boar, running the immense beast in one lap for show before halting in the middle of the ring. He raises a dark, meaty hand to demand silence from the audience once more.

“Your patience,” the announcer begins, projecting his booming voice loud enough to reverberate without aid, “will at last be rewarded.  Emperor Lotor thanks you all for your enthusiasm, and His Grace would like to apologize for such a long wait.”

Shiro braces himself, knowing the Galra are not ones to spend more time talking than necessary.  Steering his boar around, the announcer stares straight at Shiro, the boar pawing the ground with an impatient snort.  As the speaker goes on, Shiro wonders if he’s imagining the mocking glint in those yellow eyes.

“Our beloved Champion has always done well in putting on such a good show for us with each battle, but perhaps the stakes were never quite high enough.  Today will change that.”

Without waiting for further context, the crowd erupts into cheers once more.  The eagerness for Shiro’s potential demise is a bit off-putting, but Shiro has long mastered remaining calm in the face of combat.  Anticipatory, Shiro’s grip tightens on the hilt of his sword.

The announcer spins his boar again, spurring it back toward whence they’d entered as the telltale creaking of the gate pierces the air.  A malicious snarl emanates from beyond the iron, and the announcer makes a sweeping gesture from the opposite side of the ring.  “You remember the stories,” he concludes.  “You have heard the rumors.”  He disappears behind the safety of the stone, from where his voice echoes even more ominously.  “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare to see the truest of legendary beasts in a battle surely not to be forgotten.  Today, Champion faces the Black Lion, Rajalti!”

Shiro tenses, and on cue, a benighted mass bursts from the depths of the gate, tethered by a crew of struggling Galrans, all of them dwarfed in comparison.  The Galrans hastily release their holds, chains and ropes still dangling off the beast as they flee back into the shadows with the gate rising behind them.

Freed—to some extent—the creature straightens to display its full size with a roar that rattles deep in Shiro’s chest and skull.  Before him stands no lion Shiro has ever seen the likes of before; it’s huge, it has wings, and its violet eyes stare down Shiro with a ferocity that stiffens his spine.

Its thunderous growls are lost to the bellows of the madding crowd as Shiro tenses.  He never could have expected something like this, but Shiro has no time to wonder as the lion lunges with a rippling snap of its raven-like wings, claws and teeth flashing.

Miraculously, Shiro manages to roll out of its reach, albeit with little grace thanks to his bewilderment.  Shiro can hardly hear over the roaring audience, their cries rhythmically broken by the rapid pounding in his ears.

Frozen, Shiro can’t bring himself to strike, and he’s knocked aside with a whip of the lion’s tail, powerful due to its size.  Somehow, Shiro manages to keep hold of his blade, and he uses it as leverage to scramble to his feet before the lion can crush him as it pounces to where he just lie.

As if taking note of Shiro’s hesitation, the black beast slows itself and visibly tenses, head low and teeth bared as its tail sweeps from side to side.  Backing away, Shiro falls deaf to the crowd’s jeers as his eyes search the lion’s form.   _Why doesn’t it just fly away?_

Uncannily, the lion extends its wings to reveal a clearly damaged bone and a still-bleeding tear under the feathers that must be preventing its escape.   _They shot it down,_ Shiro concludes.   _This isn’t a fair fight at all.  It’s afraid._

The lack of action itches at the crowd, and they somehow manage to become even louder and angrier as Shiro refuses to attack the lion.  The lion, experimentally, lashes forward with unsheathed claws once more, a half-hearted growl shuddering through its body.  On instinct, Shiro raises his sword to block the blow, bracing for an immense impact, but none comes as the lion begins moving closer with restraint.

It’s no longer on the offensive—the look in its eyes, Shiro considers, is one of suspicion, of curiosity.  It stops before him, close enough for its hot breath to wash over Shiro’s sun-baked skin, but Shiro no longer feels a need to defend.

“This isn’t your fight,” Shiro whispers out loud, inaudible to his own ears, but the lion’s flick with interest, its violet eyes flashing.

Her.   _Her_ violet eyes.

Shiro tosses aside his blade, both in protest and in an attempt to earn the lion’s trust.  Her eyes don’t stray from Shiro’s, but the lion’s posture becomes less guarded.  She takes another step closer, lowering her head to meet Shiro’s eye level.

There is an inexplicable illumination in the lion’s eyes—literally, but there’s also an expression Shiro can only identify as thoughtful.  It sparks something deep within him, in his heart and in his gut.  The stadium falls away, the crowd fading to silence as all that remains of the world are Shiro and the lion.  Shiro’s pulse sloshes in his ears, and he extends his arm toward the lion, driven by an instinctive force.

When the tips of his fingers rest upon the lion’s nose, Shiro is blinded by a brilliance greater than the sun, the fire of which is shot through his veins.  There is a roaring in his ears, loud and impassioned, and it takes Shiro a beat to realize it is the voice of the lion—and himself.

Behind his eyes, the white explosion begins to dissipate into violet visions of starscapes and flares, nebulas and storms.  It’s immense, it’s sudden, and Shiro falls fatigued to his knees.  He clutches his chest in search of breath, and the colosseum materializes once more before Shiro collapses entirely.

As the edges of his vision begin to flicker, Shiro only hears ringing.  He closes his eyes and is enshrouded by warmth, and his final thought before slipping into unconsciousness is the realization of a new but unmistakable sensation: he’s flying.

 

* * *

 

This is the fight Matt had been waiting for.

After what had seemed like ages of idly watching performative duels for the court all day, Matt and Pidge had been eager to steal away for their own sparring session in the nearby forest glade.  As the Holt heirs, time where they can rid themselves of their royal getups to enjoy themselves alone has gotten harder to come by since the uprising of Prince Lotor.

The Galran heir had come out of nowhere, killing and usurping his father Zarkon and stopping the War of Lions cold—which would have been a cause for relief had Lotor not done so with such apparent ease when entire armies from all over Arus had previously failed to defeat Zarkon.

Now-emperor Lotor has crossed the kingdoms of Arus, preaching of his search for peace and unity among all races and provinces, but an unmistakable atmosphere of distrust continues to ripple throughout the land.  The people are wary not only of the Empire, but of any foreigners no one recognizes, and there is distrust even of the domestic royals—Matt can vouch for that personally—the mindset being: if one heir could decide to take over a kingdom, who’s to say any of the others could not do the same?

Matt can see where they’re coming from, but he just can’t see the appeal of overthrowing his father for the Holt kingdom.  It’s bothersome enough just being Prince _without_ all the treason and intimidation.

Alternatively, the second half of Arus has been fearing _for_ its rulers; for if _Emperor Zarkon_ could have been destroyed with such ease, who’s to say the same could not happen to any of the other royals?  In response to these fears, border patrols in each kingdom have increased along with recruitment and training for soldiers.  

The doubling of the royal guard has been feeling more like the spreading of a virus than a source of comfort, relations drawing taut throughout the kingdoms from this rift of “protect or forsake.”  Lately it seems like everyone—royal or not—is just trying to find their own escape.

For Matt and Pidge, catharsis is found in these sparring sessions, but convincing their parents to allow them to come here alone hadn’t been easy.  Of course, the Holts love a challenge, and between full-blown diagrams, patrol itineraries, and downright stubbornness, Sam and Colleen inevitably relented.  These times alone are short and sparse, but Matt and Pidge relish every moment.

“Getting rusty?” Matt taunts as Pidge fails to land yet another blow with her wooden staff carved just for these sessions.  Matt knows Pidge handles smaller, precise weapons much better, but he still prides himself on keeping up with her agile movements.

Pidge takes no offense at the jibe and only steps up her game, blocking a timed strike from Matt’s own staff—he’s much more adept to this sort of weapon.

Pidge twists nimbly to swipe low for Matt’s legs.  Quick on his feet, Matt dodges, and he wonders as always if either of them is really trying to win, or if they each prefer just dancing about to have a good time together, away from it all.

They clash again, laughing with sparks in their eyes, and Matt opens his mouth for another taunt when a sound not unlike thunder rips through the cloudless, sunny sky.  Jolting, Matt and Pidge whip their heads in search of the source.  As his eyes scan the gaps in the verdant canopy overhead, Matt notices a sudden hush amongst the trees.  No birds, no wind, and an electric stillness threads the atmosphere.  It’s an odd, surreal sensation, but it lasts only a moment before being shattered by another rolling crash.

Matt has to close his eyes against the searing flash of— _lightning?_ he wonders in the beat it takes for the light to swell and fade across the sky above.  Pidge gasps beside him, and Matt blinks in the crackling, aurora-like wake of… whatever that was.  He takes a bewildered moment of awe to realize the shimmering violet trail reminds him of the very galaxies he admires in the clear night skies.

“What the hell was that?” Matt breathes, at last peeling his eyes from the faded spectacle to look at his sister, who appears even more shaken than he, transfixed and unblinking at the sky.  “Pidge?”

She composes herself quickly, brow furrowing in her familiar display of contemplation.  “Weird,” Pidge says simply, but her expression conveys a deeper consideration she never voices.  Matt wants to ask what she’s thinking, but Pidge interrupts before he even opens his mouth.  “Maybe we should head back, see if anyone else saw that.”

“How could anyone have missed it?” Matt scoffs.  “But you’re right.  For all we know it could be some kind of… enemy warning shot, or something.”  Wryly, he adds, “Maybe things will finally start to get interesting around here.”

“You go on ahead,” Pidge says, taking their staffs and heading the opposite direction of the castle before Matt can protest.  “I’ve gotta find Rover, but you should hurry and see if anyone knows what that was.  Maybe the library has something.  Either way we should figure it out as soon as possible.”

Matt wants to disagree, suddenly worried that the anomaly _was_ some sign of danger, and he doesn’t want Pidge running off alone.  But she’s already half-gone through the trees, and Matt knows better than to underestimate her.  All the same, he starts his trek back at a slow pace, hoping maybe Pidge will catch up before he has to explain to his parents why he came back without her.

Matt looks back to the sky once more, where all evidence of the mysterious blitz has disappeared, and a solemn intrigue begins to awaken deep in his gut.  At least he has something new to begin researching.

 

* * *

 

Shiro’s floating.

The wind no longer tosses his hair, but he still hasn’t returned to the ground.  He lingers in some void, some nebulous space between sleep and wakefulness.  All that can be heard is a low ringing, a tenor deep in his mind broken only by a pulsing hum that gradually manifests as a sound he can recognize: _Shiro._

At his name, he’s pulled into some semblance of consciousness, but his vision still swirls with stars.

_Shiro, can you hear me?_

Shiro fights to return to the surface, but it takes a final _Shiro_ to bring him back, and Shiro blinks against the blinding light of day until his eyes adjust.  As he tries to orient himself, the first things he registers are the grass against his skin where he lies, the smell of saltwater, and a familiar face of concern.

“Keith?” Shiro croaks, sitting up and regretting it immediately when his head starts to pound.  He winces, pressing the heel of his hand to his temple with a grunt.  “What happened?”

He expects the answer to come from Keith—not from a reverberating rumble emerging from the ringing in his ears, a thunderous echo that fades into a coherent yet eerily unfamiliar voice.  _The one they call Champion, you are awake._

Startled, Shiro looks around for the source despite the voice surely coming from inside of his head.  In the shade nearby, the black lion from the ring rises to her feet.  Images of the colosseum and starry-violet feline eyes flash in Shiro’s mind as he recalls what happened before he lost consciousness.

“His name is Shiro,” Keith asserts, a grounding hand on Shiro’s shoulder.

The lioness approaches, her previous aggressive demeanor long gone as she regards Shiro with unsettling appraisal.  She towers above him, but behind her, more shapes begin to emerge from the foliage.  Three people Shiro doesn’t recognize give way to four more lions, and Shiro grows far too confused to be afraid.

In fact, he begins to feel... soothed.  Despite the foreign approachers, a calming pulse begins to spread through Shiro’s body, and his gaze is drawn back to that of the black lion.  She blinks and tilts her head.   _Shiro_ , the voice affirms.  The lion’s voice.

Before Shiro can speak, he’s cut off by the out-loud voice from one of the onlookers now formed around him—an Altean boy with bright eyes wide as he looks at Shiro.  “What are the odds?” he exclaims.  A steely-blue lion flanks him, licking lazily at a paw, but an icy eye remains watchful of Shiro.

The Altean boy goes on.  “I mean, come on, the _actual_ _Champion_ of the Galran arena is the last one of us.  That’s so cool!  I’m a _big_ fan, by the way.”

“Shut up, Lance,” Keith says in annoyance.  Shiro starts at the coppery-scarlet face of a lithe lioness now behind Keith, intensely regarding Shiro with a gaze of fire.

“Is he, like, okay?”

Shiro turns his head to see the gentle, round face of another boy turning toward the bulkiest of the lions.  Both he and the lion look back to Shiro with a wary concern, the boy addressing him directly.  “Are you okay?”  

Shiro can’t help but notice the caring warmth both he and the golden lion exude as they sit close enough to each other to touch, the lion’s honey eyes motherly.  “You can call me Hunk, by the way,” Hunk says.

Shiro smiles at Hunk, intending to reply, but he jolts yet again at another voice by his head.  “I don’t see any obvious signs of injury.”  The girl smiles wide in greeting, and behind her, the smallest winged lion rolls playfully in the moss, her pelt almost identical in color to the forest floor.  The lion bats half-heartedly at a tinier frilled beast, grey and cyclopic, as it darts through the air with cheerful clucks and buzzes, chewing on something unidentifiable.

The girl next to Shiro glances over her shoulder and dashes toward the smaller critter now perched on a branch just out of her reach.  “Hey, what are you eating?  Rover, drop it!”

Shiro, no longer wary, isn’t sure if he’s too overwhelmed to process or if he just hasn’t fully awoken yet.  “Can someone, please, just tell me what is going on?”

Keith offers Shiro a sympathetic look.  “I know this is a lot. But I think your lion should be the one to explain.”

“ _My_ lion?” Shiro repeats, incredulous, yet he can’t ignore how his gaze automatically returns to the black lioness before him.  Shiro realizes her patient eyes have never once strayed from him.

_My name is Rajalti_ , her voice resounds.  Though she doesn’t speak aloud, the others in the clearing must hear her as they all fall to silent attention.   _And_ _you are the one we have been waiting for._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAA I’m like... so nervous about posting this finally, and I don’t know why aside from general writer’s anxiety and the fact that I think I’ve made this fic project into a way bigger deal for myself than it actually is. It’s such a passion project and I’ve been wanting to treat it with the same respect and methods as I would any original fiction, but at the same time, it is fanfiction so I don’t know if I need to put so much pressure on myself lol???
> 
> i wanted to wait until i was completely done writing the fic before posting it, but i i decided to go ahead and publish chapter one and i think i'm gonna try feeling it out from here. ideally, chapters will be updated every 1-2 weeks (aaa) but blease b patient if i end up being a little inconsistent :^( in all honesty i just got so excited about sharing this lol and i was trying so hard to keep myself in check so i didn't post it before it was unquestionably ready but,, it's my first project like this so i'm gonna give myself a bit of a learning curve, yeh?
> 
> i really hope you guys enjoy the story to come :^)


	2. The Wandering Kind

Matt has had sparse success in ever surprising his sister; normally Pidge is far too aware of her surroundings—and Matt’s every thought and action, it sometimes seems—but she jolts as he nudges her arm while they make their way toward the glade.

“Hey,” says Matt.  “What’s going on with you?”

Rover chitters at her shoulder, and Pidge blinks up from the pages in her hand as if waking from a stupor.  “What?”

Matt halts in front of his sister, concerned curiosity edging its way into his voice.  “Katie, come on.  Ever since that sky-explosion-thing, you’ve been even weirder than usual.”

She’s dismissive.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Pidge returns her attention to her book and steps around her brother to carry onward down the forest path.

“Please, Pidge.”  Matt huffs, frustrated as his pace catches up with hers.  He lowers his voice despite them being quite alone out here.  “All these whispers about the Lions coming back?  That’s _insane_ , but nobody has been _talking_ about it beyond their bullshit superstition.  And these past few weeks, every time we go to the glade, you immediately run off— _alone_ —in another direction.  I feel like I’m going crazy not knowing what’s going on, but _you_ know something, don’t you?”

“ _No_ ,” Pidge scoffs, “I don’t.  I wish I did.  You think I wouldn’t tell you?”

“I have had the courtesy of not following you, thinking maybe you would invite me along or at least enlighten me at some point, but you’ve been so distant.”  Of course they don’t always have to spend their free time together, but Matt feels like he’s hardly seen his sister lately outside of formal occasions, and even then she’s barely there.  “So, what _have_ you been doing?”

Sensing Matt’s distress, Rover coos and hovers over to nose Matt’s shoulder.  When Pidge doesn’t respond right away, Matt inclines his head with feigned authority, looking down at Rover and demands, “Rover, _speak._ ”

Rover blinks his giant eye with an inquisitive warble.

“Don’t demean him,” Pidge scowls, taking hold of the little serpent and pulling him close to her chest.

“Don’t patronize _me_ ,” Matt counters.  “I know you, Pidge; you’re up to something.  What is it: a secret boyfriend at the far edge of the forest?”

“Ugh, no.  You are _annoyingly_ relentless, or maybe relentlessly annoying—I can’t decide.”  She sighs, the edge in her voice fading.  “It’s nothing: Hunk found some old texts on Rover’s species that told us he has some cool abilities we didn’t know about, so we’ve been trying to hone them and get really good at tricks so we could surprise you with a little performance at the gala.”

Pidge looks off to the side, scratching Rover’s chin, and he squeaks in accordance.  Matt looks between them, wanting more than anything to remain argumentative, but an intrigued grin betrays him.  “What kind of tricks?”

“I _said_ it’ll be a surprise.”  Pidge pivots, heading in the direction she’s begun to normally take once they reach this neck of the wood.

Matt smiles in the midst of knowing they’re both kind of embarrassed.  “Well, the show better be worth it,” he calls after her.  Continuing toward the glade, Matt’s relief fades into a familiar worry, and he wonders not for the first time how much of a risk they’re both taking wandering off like this.  They’re only allowed out here if they stay together and stay put.  Since the violet lightning though, they’ve more often been apart, Matt either quietly sitting alone in the glade waiting for his sister to come back from wherever her private training spot is, or occasionally he will risk a trek into town.

Passing right through the glade and adjusting his glasses—the stupid things had gotten bent when he fell asleep during one of his research sessions, and now they don’t sit quite right—Matt decides people-watching sounds more interesting today.  He’s about spent his reserves on silent introspection lately, and he’s tired of being bored, so Matt ties his hair back and pulls up his hood when he at last reaches the outskirts of town.

Matt adores the breath of life that comes from something as mundane as the ambient sounds of a marketplace.  He smells something sweet in the air as he weaves his way through the bustle of people and navigates the worn cobblestone streets to his favorite bakery.  Pidge’s friend Hunk works here—her insistence upon trying his recipes is how Matt had found the place.  As he approaches the window, Hunk’s familiar yet unexpected beaming face greets him.

“I thought you’d be out with Pidge today,” says Matt, retrieving his coin pouch from his satchel.  “I can hardly get her to stand still, her being so excited to do whatever you guys are doing with Rover.”

Hunk blinks then shrugs.  “Duty calls: Shay had a family emergency—nothing bad, but I offered to man the window for her today.”

“Very chivalrous of you,” Matt smiles, half-teasing.  “I don’t think she could ask for a better shopkeep.”

Matt thinks Hunk might be blushing, but he turns away before Matt can be certain.  “The usual?” Hunk asks.

They make their exchange with friendly partings, and Matt’s off through the streets once again.  He’s never one to plan for these days out, but since he’s here, Matt decides to grab some new pencils for his studies.  He takes his time, however, browsing the displays and shops on the streets, conditioned etiquette leaving him picking delicately at his favorite seasoned bread.

Matt has never been recognized out in public.  The lack of showy robes and elaborate makeup does most of the work to disguise him since the royals are never seen in such plainclothes as Matt’s patchy traveling cloak and crooked glasses.  All the same, he keeps his head low but nods amiably to those passing him by, indulging in the anonymity of busy streets.  Matt relishes the freeing relief of not being recognized—it makes him feel normal.

Still, he can’t disregard the hint of loneliness lurking in the corner of his mind as he circles back from the woodworker’s shop, fresh set of artisan pencils in hand.  His sister is really the only one he’s ever able to spend time with comfortably.  Friendships—authentic friendships, anyway—are sparsely forged with his lifestyle; most are acquaintances only seen at formal gatherings or supervised events.  Matt envies the casual displays between the companions in town: casual, free to roam and laugh and express affections.

Of course, it’s not all idyllic outside the castle walls.  Matt has seen those impoverished sleeping outside, seeking and begging for change, many too ill to even ask for help.  Matt’s met a few who’ve sought his parents for aid in their desperation, but the increase in guard shifts and defenses have left even the royals with little change to spare.  Guilt once again claws at Matt in retrospect for not being able to do more for those he considers far more in need of coin than himself.

Matt smiles, wry, as he approaches the center of town; here he is, introspective yet again in spite of himself.  He’s drawn from his rumination, however, by a wafting merry melody from the square—alongside a sizeable crowd of enthusiastic onlookers swarming a trio of Altean musicians.

The singer’s voice rings out clear and in strong harmony with the accompanying strings and bells.  Alteans have a unique, almost crystalline sound to their music, but it’s arguably the most beloved throughout all the kingdoms.  Matt certainly enjoys it, anyway.

So does the giggling group of companions at the front of the crowd batting their eyes at the lead boy.  Eating up the attention, he indulges them with flirty winks and smirks as he continues his song, and one girl exclaims a shrill, “I love you, Lance!”  The silver-haired harpist behind Lance rolls her eyes.  Matt thinks she’s the prettier one anyway.

Away from the crowd, Matt moves to take a seat at the fountain in the middle of the square, but a force knocks into his shoulder and sends him stumbling forward.  In keeping his footing, Matt loses his grip on the pouch of pencils and a pack of discounted parchment he’d purchased, sending them sprawling into the street.

Matt drops to his knees immediately to gather his materials with which he’s too concerned to even consider looking for what bumped into him until a second set of hands is helping Matt pick up the scattered pencils.  Matt looks up, glasses askew, and realizes it hadn’t been a what, but a who.

“I’m so sorry,” the stranger says, an earnest apology shadowed by the hood over his face.  His very nice face.  Very chiseled.  Very—familiar?

“I know you,” Matt says stupidly.  “You’re the—”  Matt looks around, hushing his voice.  “You’re guy from the colosseum.  Shirogane, right?  I recognize you from the posters—your hair’s different though.”   _Isn’t this guy a fugitive now?_

Shushing Matt further, the ex?-gladiator heaves a flustered sigh, picking up the last of Matt’s pencils before helping him to his feet.  His back to the crowd, he insists, “Shiro’s fine.”

 _He sure is._  “I thought you were, like… wanted.”

Shiro, clearly conflicted, rubs at the back of his neck, the gnawing of his lip hardly seeming the behavior of a battle-worn, on-the-run warrior.  Matt smiles curiously, a thousand questions exploding to the forefront of his mind, but before he can ask any of them, Shiro pulls Matt away from the open square and into a back alley.

He regards Matt briefly then gestures to his scarred nose.  “Your, um...”

“Oh.”  Matt fixes his glasses with a nervous laugh.  He takes a breath, about to get to those questions of his, but Shiro interrupts mid-inhale.

“Please, don’t tell anyone.”  Then, in self-directed exasperation, Shiro mutters, “Of course this would happen; this was always a bad idea.”

“I’m great at secrets,” Matt begins, hoping to reassure Shiro enough so he can give Matt some curiosity-satisfying answers.  Matt blinks, re-prioritizing his questions.  “So... why are you here if you need to be hiding?”

Hood shadowing more of his face in this alley lighting, Shiro sighs, casting wary glances out into the street.  Subtle desperation weaves through his expression when he turns back to Matt, seeming inexplicably quick to confide in him.  “I was getting claustrophobic.”

Matt stifles a laugh, sympathetic in his disbelief.  “I know _exactly_ what you mean.”

Before proceeding, Shiro’s dark eyes are stern in their reluctance.  “How do I know you won’t say anything?”

Matt’s inherent curiosity overrides any sense of self-preservation, along with his empathy for Shiro’s obvious distress, and Matt casually confesses, “I’m, uh… The Holt prince?  And I’m not supposed to be here either?”

“Wait, _what_?”

“There’s your collateral.”  Matt shrugs, waving his hand dismissively.  “But I’m sure your story is more interesting.  Like, that crazy, purple-cloud thing a while back?  I heard rumors of the ‘Champion’ disappearing with a lion?  Like, one of _the_ Lions—the Leonic Angels, or whatever they were called?   And, look: I’m not usually one to believe something without seeing it, but I just _have_ to know if—”

“Okay, okay,” Shiro cuts him off, impatient as he rubs at his eyes with a scoff.  “Oh, gods, what is _happening_ right now?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

Sighing, Shiro casts another glance into the street.  Matt’s eyes follow, and he watches the Altean musicians proceed to pack up their things as the crowd disperses following the end of their set.

“I came here for them,” Shiro whispers.  “I have something for Allura.”

“Wait,” Matt exclaims in a shrill whisper, “ _that’s_ Princess Allura?”  He’d never actually seen the Altean princess before in person; he’s a little off-guard—and frankly, a little offended—that another royal could so casually roam about in public doing little to disguise herself when Matt has to make such an effort to sneak off and hide his own identity.  “Shouldn’t she be under, like, _crazy_ protective custody?”

“That’s what Lance and Coran are for,” Shiro says, indicating the other two members of the troupe.  “But, Alteans are pretty capable of taking care of themselves—especially Allura.”  Shiro shoots Matt an accusatory look.  “What about you, _Prince Matthew_?  Where’s your protection?  You’re the vulnerable one here.”

“What, should I be worried since you’re some kind of royal assassin now?” Matt deflects, at first in jest, but the minute possibility of that being the exact case trips a nervous glimmer in his gut.

“What?  No, I—Look,” Shiro says with a frustrated sigh, “This has gone immediately off the rails, and I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do now.”

“Wanna be my bodyguard?” Matt teases unhelpfully, also not understanding entirely what’s going on.

Shiro rolls his eyes, keeping his attention on Allura and the others, almost tangibly illustrating his thought process through facial expressions, presumably considering what move should be his next.

“Well,” Matt suggests, half in earnest and half-jokingly, “are you gonna introduce me?”

Though it hadn’t exactly been Matt’s intention, Shiro contemplates for a moment longer and nods decisively.  “Come on.”  Shiro takes a strong but gentle hold of Matt’s wrist to lead him out of the alley, and Matt decides it is inappropriate how he’s noticing the pleasantly calloused touch on his arm.

“We’ll meet them in the outskirts,” Shiro explains, staying close enough to Matt to speak low so as not to be overheard.  “Play it casual—well,” he amends, the shine of a laugh in his eyes, “I guess, you’re not new to this, are you Your Highness?”

 _Why_ , Matt laments to himself, _does my brain have to pick now to be so very aware of this guy’s physical presence?_

Shiro guides him along the far side of the street, expertly shielding his face—his very nice face—while keeping watch of the Alteans.  Though Shiro’s grip of Matt’s arm is steadfast, there’s no threat behind it; it’s more an absent gesture of security.  Matt feels unexpectedly safe, even though he’s sure it’s just a measure to ensure the two of them don’t get separated in the midst of this bizarre turn of events.

Matt adjusts the strap of his bag, finally tucking his newly-purchased paper and pencils inside.  “It’s a shame, really,” Matt says, unable to deny the swell of discomfort in their silence.  “I never got to see you in action.”

Now out of the dim alley, Matt’s heart skips as he notices via glance the new casting of light over Shiro’s features.  Perhaps others might find themselves awestruck due to Shiro’s reputation as a renowned gladiator, but Matt’s more concerned by how pretty he is.

“Uh, your fights,” Matt needlessly clarifies in a sudden grasp at conversation.  “I was, uh, I just never had the chance, I guess— _royal duties_ , and all.”  Matt adjusts his glasses as a nervous reflex.   _Oh, boy._

Shiro flashes a half-smile from under his hood that nearly topples Matt to his knees.  “And here you are running into me randomly.”  His smile falters, meek.  “Er, well, I guess I ran into you.  Sorry, again.  Are you okay?  Your... pencils?”

“Yes.  I’m—uh, _we_ —are perfectly fine.”  Matt laughs then clears his throat.  “What a coincidence, huh?”  _I_ _t was not this hot a minute ago._

Shiro tilts his head, light-hearted and thoughtful.  “Interesting word choice; most people would call it fate.”

“Well, that’s awfully bold.”

“No, no, I’m not—” Shiro sputters.  “I just meant, you know, ‘grand design’ and ‘destiny’ are pretty pervasive beliefs around here.”

Matt shrugs, dismissive.  “I prefer to make my own destiny.”

Shiro laughs softly, his sheepishness replaced by blatant intrigue.  “You know, some might call that blasphemy.”

“Well, _some_ can kiss my _ass_ -phemy,” Matt sneers, knowing very well the pun was stupid but he had no way of stopping himself and now he must make an immense effort not to look at the very-nice-face-having guy next to him.

Matt, however, does end up looking to Shiro upon hearing the bewildered smirk in his low voice.  “You’re really the Holt prince?”

“Didn’t we _just_ establish our identities being classified?”

“Yes, of course; I’m just a little off-guard.  You’re… so…”

“Devilishly handsome, even in disguise?” Matt suggests with a grin.  “Remarkably charming?  Great at first impressions?”

Shiro laughs, nodding to himself.  “You are definitely something.”

They walk only a short while longer before reaching the edge of town.  Shiro catches Princess Allura’s eye near the southeast entrance, and he and Matt wait patiently beyond the gate—well, Shiro seems patient enough, but Matt can’t help tapping his foot on the path, stirring up tiny dust clouds around his boot.

Shiro casts Matt a chiding expression, but before either can speak, the three Alteans come riding out on their respective horses, the steeds undecorated in a half-hearted attempt at discretion.  Matt swallows against the envy that the Altean princess and her guards can be so seemingly casual in their outings, even in the longstanding wake of King Alfor’s assassination.  Granted, the divisive uprising of Lotor has left things eerily calm throughout Arus, but still; Matt and Pidge, being the puny, naturally-defenseless _humans_ that they are, have to constantly connive and cheat just to get a breath of fresh air without suffocating under a cavalcade of supervision.

“Princess,” Shiro bows as the Alteans approach.  Matt follows suit, resentfully remembering proper etiquette and diplomacy.  He hates when people bow for him, though, so he’s at least comforted by believing the Alteans don’t realize who he is.

“Shiro?” Allura begins warily upon reining in her gorgeous chestnut mare.  As Matt straightens, the princess regards him curiously.  “What’s going on?  It’d better be important if you’re risking being recognized.”

“Isn’t that a little hypocritical?” Matt says without reservation.

“Excuse me?” says Allura, appalled.

“Who are _you_?” that Lance guy interjects from behind his princess.

“Don’t worry about him,” Shiro tries to pacify before things get out of hand.  He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a sealed letter, handing it to Allura.  “Romelle needed to get a message to you, and I offered to deliver it myself—albeit, a little recklessly, in retrospect,” he adds with a sidelong glance to Matt who purses his lips against a smile.

Still suspiciously eyeing up Matt, Allura moves to accept the letter, but the one Shiro had referred to as Coran spurs his horse in between so he can take the parchment instead.

“Hold on, now, Princess,” the older gentleman says, hands deftly moving to crack the wax.  “You can’t just be going around grabbing hold of letters all willy-nilly; you never know when there might be something laced in the fibers of the parchment, or in the ink.”

Allura rolls her eyes, and Matt changes his mind about her, sympathizing—she seems just as burdened by all the “protocols” as he.  “Coran,” she says patiently, “you know I appreciate your dutiful concern, but I should think we can trust Shiro by this point.”

“Shiro, yes, but what about _him_?”  With an accusatory gesture to Matt, Coran pries open the seal, handing the parchment to Lance to read while Coran continues with his narrow gaze of suspicion.

Disbelieving, Matt cocks an eyebrow.  “What, you think I’m, like, mind-controlling Shiro to give you a poisoned letter?”

“It’s okay, Coran,” Shiro interjects a bit miserably.  “We can trust him.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Matt and Shiro exchange a glance, Matt’s expression likely exposing his flash of panic as Shiro says, “I can’t really explain right now, but I trust him, and you trust me, so the rest can wait.”

“Allura,” Lance says upon finishing the letter, tone jarringly grave.  “It’s about your mom.”

“What?”  Allura snatches the letter from Lance, skimming it over with acute focus.  She reads fast, sharp eyes returning to Shiro.  “Why didn’t you deliver this sooner?”

Taken aback, Shiro sputters, “I didn’t know—I’d been, uh, interrupted, I’m sorry.  Is… everything okay?”

Allura’s fine brow furrows as she scrutinizes Matt again, all three Alteans still clearly wary of him.  _Maybe this is a time when being recognized wouldn’t be so bad_ , Matt ponders.

The princess looks back to Shiro, her cadence returning to one of neutral authority.  “We’re returning to the castle.  I assume you’re handling whatever _this_ —” she nods to Matt, “—is, so find me when you return, and we will discuss everything further then.”

Hesitating, Shiro nods in a small formal gesture as the Alteans all spur their horses further south toward their kingdom, departing with haste.

As their forms begin to fade toward the horizon, Matt regards Shiro with renewed curiosity.  “You’re with the Alteans now?”

Taking a beat longer to stare concernedly after the princess and her companions, Shiro turns back to Matt.  “It’s a long story.”

“I like long stories.”

In spite of himself, Shiro smirks, but still dodges with a subtle shake of the head.  “I’ll walk you home.”

Matt raises his eyebrows, teasing.  “It’s a long walk.”

Shiro holds Matt’s gaze, eyes searching for something at which Matt could never guess.  “I like long walks.”

 

* * *

 

Neither Matt nor Shiro had taken a mount from their respective kingdoms that day, so they head toward the Holt castle on foot.  Despite Matt’s initial pressing for more information from Shiro, Shiro unwaveringly insists that he’s not at current liberty to discuss his situation, and expertly changes the subject to ask Matt generic, nice-to-meet-you questions instead.

Perhaps out of a desire to earn further trust, and perhaps a bit out of vanity, Matt answers everything elaborately, unfettered.  Or perhaps, Matt considers as they make their way into the glade that marks the final stretch of the trek home, he’s just so caught up in the excitement of meeting someone new under interesting circumstances that oversharing is his subconscious way of relieving those nerves.

Shiro never seems to mind, though.  He indulges Matt’s endless babbling even in response to simple questions, barely seeming preoccupied in spite of the day’s abnormalities.  In fact, Shiro seems more attentive than ever, and both Matt and Shiro express vague disappointment when they stop at the mouth of the final path, Matt gesturing in its general direction.

“I’m, uh, this way,” Matt announces needlessly.  “And, regretfully, we shouldn’t be seen together on the castle grounds—or, anywhere, if I’m understanding the situation correctly?”

Smiling, Shiro nods in relent, and takes a moment before he says, “I, um... Will I be seeing you around again?”

“Are you allowed?” Matt teases.

Shiro doesn’t miss a beat.  “Are _you_?”

Matt works his jaw, hoping for something witty to say, but nothing comes, and his façade cracks.  “I’m sorry, this is, um, a bit… unconventional—even for me—so I’m trying to figure out what to say or do without making things—or myself—seem any weirder.”

“Not weird,” Shiro assures him gently, shrugging one shoulder.  “Just... unconventional, like you said.”

_Gods, he is so…_

Matt sighs.  “Should we start over?  Or, at least try?”  Holding out a hand, Matt says amicably, “Hello, stranger whom I have only just now encountered for the first time ever and have no indication of your identity.  I’m Matt.”

Shiro shakes Matt’s hand, slow and firm, and Matt can’t tell if it’s Shiro’s or his own palm that’s sweaty.  Maybe it’s both.

Shiro smiles, crooked and curious.  “Hi, fellow stranger named Matt.  I’m Shiro, and I want you to know that I have no idea what I’m doing either.”

Matt nods in part to himself, coming the closest he ever has to praying that a blush is not evident in his face as he retracts his hand.  Inclining his head, Matt assumes a confident air of diplomacy.  “I want to fight you.”

Shiro blinks.  “I’m sorry?”

“Well,” Matt says with a shrug.  “I mean, I never got to see any of your fights in the colosseum, so the next best thing—or maybe even the better thing—might be to just use your moves on me.  Fighting moves,” he adds quickly, for no reason because it’s not like Shiro could have interpreted it differently.

Shiro bites his lip.  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why?  Are you scared I’ll win?”

“What?  No,” Shiro scoffs.  “I mean, I’m sure you’re quite dexterous, but…”  Shiro shakes his head faintly, narrowing his eyes in a visible search for words before he sighs.  “How do I know you’re really not going to say anything, or just disappear?”

“I thought you said you trusted me,” Matt reminds him playfully.

Shiro licks his lips to mask a smile, rolling his eyes, but he speaks with tentative sincerity.  “I made a choice to trust you in the moment, but now the moment’s over, and I’m not really sure _what_ to make of you.”

“Okay, a little harsh,” Matt relents, “but I understand your hesitation, so, uh…”  Thinking fast, Matt rummages through his satchel and retrieves the crafted pencils he’d bought earlier—the only thing from today he’d even remotely expected.  “Here,” he says, offering the pack to Shiro.  “Collateral.”

Amused, Shiro raises his eyebrows in disbelief.  “Really?”

“I do actually need these,” Matt insists.  “So, in addition to my word as a Holt—which, in these circumstances, is a secret in and of itself, mind you—I can’t possibly offer a higher sign of trust.”

“Okay, okay,” Shiro laughs in submission.  He accepts the offer delicately, using both hands in an exaggerated show of understanding its worth, and Matt does his very best to ignore the brush of fingers against his own.  “How about: in five days, I will bring you your pencils, and you can bring me your best moves.”

Matt feigns a deep consideration.  “Make it three days.”

 

* * *

 

The final remnants of the evening sun hover over the mountains far in the distance, casting a dim fiery glow upon the lush summer blooms in the Holts’ royal garden.  Matt picks at one such bloom, the speckled red petals scattering around him in the hand-woven hammock, reminding himself of one of the pining damsels in those stories read to children.

“I don’t get it,” Pidge says next to him on the grass, tossing Rover’s stick for the hundredth time.  “What’s so special about this guy whose name you refuse to tell me?  You’ve cycled through plenty of cute faces in the past.”

“What are you implying?” Matt accuses lazily, swinging the hammock with his toes that barely reach the ground.

Even though Pidge isn’t facing Matt, he can still see the emphatic eye roll as Rover drops off the stick.  “I’m just saying, you _know_ you can’t be involved with anyone outside of our parents’ knowledge, which is exactly _why_ you’ve never been with the same person twice.  Once is risky enough.”

Matt clucks his tongue, sitting up in the hammock—as well as one can sit up in a hammock—and tosses the now-barren flower stem off to the side.  Rover catches it mid-air and eats it.  “This is different,” Matt says.  “ _H_ _e’s_ different.”

“He’s not different!” Pidge insists, not for the first time since Matt’s vague recounting of the day’s events.  Rover chirps, nipping at her fingers, and she absently bats back. “Because even if you told Mom and Dad about this guy, they’d never approve because it would mean them learning you’ve been sneaking off and breaking the rules, and then you _and_ mystery guy would be in trouble.”

With her chastising, Matt’s starting to feel like Pidge is the older sibling here, and he huffs.  “Why do you suddenly care about the rules?  It’s not like you haven’t been running off, too.”

Pidge sighs, tone softening.  “I just don’t want to see you getting hurt because you got your hopes up over something that _can’t happen._ ”  Rover curls up in her lap, and Matt lies back down to curl up in the hammock as Pidge continues.  “You really shouldn’t see him again, Matt.  You have to stop this before it even starts, or you’re gonna be playing with fire.  I mean, you’re _already_ playing with fire, so just... be smart about this.”

Matt rolls his eyes, but he can’t deny Pidge is probably right.  She’s usually right.  Matt hates that.  “Well, he has my pencils,” Matt mutters flatly, exhausted and ready to end this conversation, “so, I’ll have to see him at least one more time.”

Still, Matt has never been one to abide by precedent, and he can’t ignore the blinding intrigue about Shiro and the feeling that their meeting was the start of something potentially quite significant.  But then again, his rational brain suggests, maybe he’s just bored and it’s the cabin fever talking—or rather, castle fever.

 


	3. The Language of Movement

It’s not something Shiro could have ever fathomed experiencing, let alone getting used to, but Rajalti’s deliberate pulse of calming aura is now familiar to Shiro as she keeps his and the others’ minds clear and relaxed.  In the quiet hollow, in a meditative circle, the Lions and their partners, the Lionhearts, continue their efforts to reach for each other’s minds in order for them to forge their bonds as a team—or rather, as a pride, as Rajalti had called them.

Even Shiro and Keith, so close as brothers, haven’t learned to awaken the specific bond required between Hearts.  It’s been a few weeks, but Shiro’s still trying to wrap his mind around the bond between _Lion_ and Heart.  Clearer than day, Shiro remembers looking into the Black Lion’s violet eyes and feeling a calling of sorts—an instinct stirring deep in his core that drove Shiro to reach for her.  He remembers the blast of exposure and emotion he felt at that first touch, the other Hearts experiencing the same sort of awakening with their respective Lions.

This “awakening” was the beginning of a bond fueled by the ancient magic of a spell called Amaria.  The Lions are the bearers of this particular magic, and once bonded with their Hearts, it allows them to share the essences of their beings; both Lion and Heart have a total awareness of each other, no matter how far apart.  They can feel each other’s emotions as their own, something largely unsettling to Shiro at first, but too he adapted to that.

The Amarian bond can even provide the Lionheart an occasional magical gift.  Back in the colosseum, face-to-face with Rajalti, all Shiro had wanted in that moment was for her to be free.  Rajalti had told him that through Amaria, that desire is exactly what had healed her wing and allowed them to flee the colosseum.

 _Amaria,_ she had said when all the Lionhearts were finally together, _can only be shared with those of pure heart and soul.  Should one such soul harbor a consuming desire with roots in as much purity, Amaria may grant that desire._

Immediately, the Lionhearts had tried to wish for small things at first, some vague ideas or material objects even, hoping to gain an understanding of what Amaria can and can’t do, but Rajalti then warned, _Amaria bears a sort of sentience; you cannot predict when it will choose to manifest your desire.  Often, it is a desire of which you may not even be truly aware, and even if you were, it would be impossible to predict how Amaria will manifest that desire._

“So… be careful what you wish for?” Lance had surmised, only part in jest.

Rajalti had blinked calmly at him, speaking in earnest with a fond lilt, _Something like that._

All of this has remained in the corner of Shiro’s mind while he and the other Lionhearts strive to connect their minds and hearts.  In their peculiar state of meditation anchored by Rajalti’s aura, Shiro wanders the starry void of his consciousness in search of those around him, unsure if he is meant to see some kind of guiding light, or perhaps feel a deep calling to them as he had Rajalti, or perhaps a more subtle magnetism like he’d felt with Matt the other day.

There hadn’t been a _calling_ with Matt; it was nothing so profound or even anything magical.  There was just something curiously comforting in his aura; maybe not even his aura—maybe it was just something about Matt’s personality, his cadence and the way he carried himself, that had been enough to convince Shiro to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Sure, Shiro had taken a risk going out in broad daylight when the Empire is offering a hefty reward for his capture, and it was an even bigger risk to confide in and be seen with a total stranger—not just a stranger, but the _Holt prince_.   He hadn’t told the others that part—in fact, he hadn’t told them anything about meeting Matt.  Lance, of course, was the only other Heart aware of his existence, but Shiro had implored Lance not to tell the others right away, convincing him it was nothing of any concern—or at least, Shiro had _tried_ to convince him, but Lance has been poorly masking his unease about the situation.  Even now it pervades this shared liminal space the Lionhearts have been trying to navigate.

The others must feel it too, for they’ve all begun to fidget in their small, silent circle, the meditation energy breaking enough that such silence has become uncomfortable, everyone pretending they’re not distracted and thus only getting further distracted.  

Despite the Hearts not yet being bonded directly, some vibes can still be passed in a sort of proxy situation: each Heart shares with their Lion who shares with the _other_ Lions who share with _their_ Hearts.  So, while Shiro would like to remain optimistic and believe he feels Lance’s annoyance due to the beginnings of a successful Heart-to-Heart bond, he’s pretty sure he only feels it through Rajalti next to him because the Blue Lion, Irazu, is groaning low in discomfort next to Lance.

Until the pride has completed their true bonding, all the Lions except for Rajalti can only speak amongst themselves and with their respective Hearts.  The Black Lion is the only Lion who can project her aura and voice to anyone she chooses, part of the pride or not.  Of course Rajalti and Shiro can still have their own private communications, but right now she speaks to everyone, calm voice still sudden enough against the ambiance of the wooded coastal hollow to snap everyone to attention as she withdraws her calming energy.  _Alright, what is it?_

No one responds at first, instead staring uncomfortably at the Black Lion like a classroom of children who’ve been misbehaving.

 _You are all distracted,_ Rajalti chides passively.   _Where are you?_   She is still, eyes wandering over the group, her body language portraying ambivalence, but Shiro can feel the faint nudge of impatience within her.  It is a rare expression of hers, Rajalti being the oldest and most patient of the Lions, but Shiro realizes the numerous failed attempts at the Lionhearts’ bonding is beginning to pick at her.

“Lance is the one bringing the bad attitude today,” Hunk accuses.  His Lion, Kaerda, snoozes next to him in a patch of sunlight, setting her pelt alight in shades of wheat and gold.  “I could feel it a mile away.”

On Hunk’s opposite side, Lance grows defensive at once.  “Oh, right, okay, so even though _Keith_ is the one showing up every day all broody and mad, it’s _my_ fault none of us can connect because I have _one_ off-day.”

“You _make_ me broody and mad,” Keith argues, admittedly a noticeable distance apart from the rest of the group.  “Quit blaming me for everything!”  The Red Lion, Branoc, doting as ever, curls around her Heart protectively so Keith rests against her flank, her orange eyes watchful.

Pidge chimes in next to Shiro.  “Will you two _please_ shut up for, like, _one_ day?”  Behind her, the Green Lion, little Michlo, has already gotten distracted playing in the thicket with Rover again.

 _Settle,_ Rajalti soothes, directing her gaze to the Blue Lion and Heart.   _You have been particularly sour these past few sessions, Lance_ , _yet_ _you have told not even Irazu the matter?  She worries._

Irazu snorts with a dismissive toss of the head as if embarrassed by Rajalti’s admission.

“Well, what about Shiro?” Lance flares.  “He keeps wandering off to fantasy land to think about his _boyf_ —”

“Maybe we’re all having a bit of an off-day,” Shiro suggests at last, hoping his heart palpitations aren’t obvious to everyone else.

 _I have not been blind to your preoccupation, either,_ Rajalti says low with a glance to Shiro.  She straightens a bit, shifting in place.   _Perhaps when I insisted you all keep your minds open, I was not clear.  There are to be no secrets among us._

Pidge throws up her arms in a sudden outburst, nearly whacking Shiro and drawing Michlo’s attention back to her with a head tilt.  “What, we don’t get to keep _anything_ for ourselves?  We barely know each other!”

 _Such is my point,_ Rajalti asserts, the stern shift in her tone subtle but very clear.   _Secrets mean you are building shields, and those shields are keeping you from bonding with one another._

Shiro swallows.  Silently, between only he and Rajalti, passes a faint disapproval.  Shiro knows she can sense his emotions, having been juggling both anxiety and excitement since meeting Matt, but Amaria doesn’t allow mind-reading for Rajalti to know that Matt even exists.  She has been suspect from the odd tension among the group, but she hasn’t pressed anyone to speak their privacies until now.  Even so, still no one speaks.  Hesitant eyes are all downcast in the group, the Lions looking to each other.

Princess Allura’s voice shatters the silence this time.  Shiro jolts, having admittedly forgotten she’s been observing off to the side this entire time.  “We’re never going to be able to announce the return of the Leonic Angels at this rate.”  She’s frustrated, arms crossed as she moves closer to the circle, brow creased with an elegance only Allura could muster even in the midst of dismay.

Shiro rises to his feet to meet her gaze, intending to reassure despite his own uncertainty.  “Maybe we’re trying too hard.  Connections are hard to force; we’ll get there.  We just need more time.”

Everyone else has risen to their feet as well, stretching to relieve some of their own tension.  All except Allura, her shoulders still tight.  “I’m not sure how much time there is left to spare.”

“Why’s it matter to you so much?” Keith says, his own anger getting the better of him, much to Shiro’s chagrin.  “You’re not even one of us.”

Allura stiffens at Shiro’s side but otherwise doesn’t react.

“Keith,” Shiro warns.

“Like you’re one to talk!” Lance jumps to defend, whirling to face Keith so fast Irazu starts at his side, sharing an uncertain glance with Branoc.  “You’re _Galra_!”

“Half-Galra,” Hunk shyly corrects.

“Whatever.  If anyone doesn’t belong here, it’s _you_.”

“Lance!” Allura warns.  

Branoc snorts in response to the flare she feels of Keith’s temper, Irazu’s ears flattening in the shared discomfort.  The sisters regain their composure fast, but Keith steps closer to Lance, seething.  “I didn’t ask for this!”

“None of us did,” Pidge interjects, her tone sharp enough to draw everyone’s gaze.  Back at her side, Rover and Michlo sit attentive, visibly uneasy.  “We all get handed things we don’t ask for, but you have to grow up and learn how to handle it!”

 _That is enough,_ Rajalti commands over the din.  She takes a deep breath, and her weariness trickles through Shiro like rain filling a gutter.   _Shiro is right; trust cannot be forced, especially for bonds such as these._   _You must want to be part of this, but it seems there is even more underlying doubt than of which I was aware._  She rises to her feet, iridescent feathers rustling in the late daylight.   _We are done for today, but we will return to begin resolving these matters.  You need to bond as civil people before you can bond as Lionhearts._

Disappointment unmasked between all the Lions and felt by their Hearts, everyone falls into shameful silence as they begin to part ways for the evening.  Hunk and Pidge head the opposite direction from the others, and as they pass by Shiro, he hears Hunk mumble to Pidge, “I mean, he _is_ only half-Galra; that counts for something, right?”

Keith takes a head start back to the castle, Branoc staring after him forlornly, and Lance stays close to Allura as they both follow suit.  Shiro moves to join them, hoping to talk this out some more, but Rajalti’s voice pulls him back.

_A moment, my cub._

Shiro hesitates before turning to face her, feeling like he’s in trouble, though it’s plain Rajalti harbors no malice.  With a turn of the head, she dismisses the attention of the other Lions, and the four of them curl up off to the side of the clearing and share tongues in a grooming session.

 _You are normally much better at keeping everyone under control,_ she remarks to Shiro, facing him once more as she rests on her side.  For a silent moment, she regards him with only curiosity and observes, _But you have been concerned with other matters.  What else is so important?_

Shiro works his jaw, taking a guilty breath to try and explain without revealing too much, but Rajalti reminds him with a gentle gleam in her eye, _No secrets.  Especially not from me._

He laughs, caught, of course.  “I’m sorry,” he begins.  “I would have said something sooner—I was planning on telling you, but—I just didn’t think it was my place to—”  Shiro sighs then takes another deep breath.  “I met someone.  But, I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you who he is.”  Rajalti tilts her head, and Shiro adds, “So, it’s not _my_ secret I’m keeping.”

 _Is this secret dangerous?_ his Lion asks. _Has Lance been upset because he knows of it?_

Though they’d been speaking privately, Irazu glances over as if sensing even the mention of her Heart before returning to the shared grooming with her sisters.

“No, not exactly, he just—” Shiro shakes his head, flustered.  “I promise I’ll explain everything; I’m supposed to, um, meet him again tomorrow.  I can talk to him, and then I’ll talk to you.  In fact, I’ll talk to everyone—so there’s no secrets.”

 _Does this person know who you are?_ she queries further, genuine concern slipping in to her tone.   _Is it safe to be alone with him?_

“Perfectly safe, I promise.”

 _I hear lots of promises._ Eyes narrowed, Rajalti scrutinizes Shiro for an uncomfortable beat before a low purr begins to roll through her, her intrigue and pleasure echoing through Shiro in turn.  He feels the heat in his face as she croons, _You are excited to see him._

Stumbling over his words at first, Shiro turns toward the direction of the castle, conversation over.  “I should really catch up with the others, make sure they haven’t killed each other.  I’ll see you when I get back tomorrow.”

Still purring as he leaves the hollow, Rajalti teases after him, _Be careful, and do not stay out too late, my cub._

“Good _night,_  Rajalti.”

 

* * *

 

The sun has all but vanished for the evening when Shiro makes it back to the castle where he and Keith are now staying.  Upon Shiro’s arrival in the Altean hollow that first day, Princess Allura had convinced her mother, Queen Alís, to allow him and Keith to board with them in guest chambers.  It hadn’t been much of an effort to convince Her Majesty; though not bonded through Amaria, both Allura and Alís are no less than family to the Lions, and thus their Hearts were easily accepted into the Altean castle—despite any protests from Lance regarding Keith’s heritage.

The Altean royal family’s tie with the Lions comes from the late King Alfor, Rajalti’s last Heart.  The War of Lions was started in part to his bond with Rajalti; Emperor Zarkon, once a close friend of Alfor, was driven by greed to kill Alfor in the hopes of taking the Lions’ power for himself.  Of course, he’d failed, for he could have never forged an Amarian bond with the Black Lion, but the devastation of Alfor’s death had left her weakened enough to be captured.

Without a bond to a Lionheart, the Lions are unable to access their true strength and magic.  From what Rajalti has told Shiro, the Galra seem to lack much understanding of this.  Rajalti was held captive for ages, apart from the other Lions which only weakened her further, and yet the Empire had seemed to believe she would somehow regain her abilities under duress.  When she did not, Zarkon’s witch Haggar and her druids had aimed to use their own dark magic to summon Rajalti’s power by force.  That too had failed, but luckily the remaining Angels had found Rajalti and freed her after a short but gruesome battle.

With Rajalti at her weakest, and the Lionhearts without one of their own, the pride’s remaining bonds were strained, their powers hindered.  Queen Alís and her daughter Allura offered the Lions hospice in the coastal hollow, casting a field of protection that disguises the hollow so none may enter without permission.  Alís wanted the pride to rest and regain their strength, but without a Black Heart, they would always be far too vulnerable.

The previous Green Heart, Trigel, proposed the regretful course of action that the pride should find a way to break their Amarian connections.  To suggest it alone was painful, but the gaping hole felt among the Lionhearts left by the death of Alfor was so great—felt twofold from the break in the Hearts’ bond as well as the searing ache in Rajalti’s soul—that as a pride, the Leonic Angels could not function as it must; the loss was so debilitating that even as mundane warriors the Lionhearts could not fight with those connections still in tact.

Zarkon wanted his empire to encompass all of Arus.  He would never stop, so neither could the Lionhearts, even if the Lions could no longer fight alongside them.  The Leonic Angels decided as one: if they could break their bonds, the pain would be lessened considerably, allowing the Hearts to offer their services in battle while the Lions remained hidden to heal.

Solemnly, the Leonic Angels had set out to find the help of a powerful Altean alchemist, one who could access the magical realm of Oriande in which the spirit of the White Lion resides.  Though not at first obvious, it was not to much of anyone’s surprise that that alchemist had been Princess Allura, the daughter of King Alfor, the most renowned alchemist in Arus.

Through trials and means Allura will still not divulge, the Princess sought the aid of the White Lion, and learned of a means to cut the bonds between Lion and Heart.  As with most magic, however, there was a catch: once the bonds were cut, they could not be rebuilt between any of the same Lionhearts.  If the Leonic Angels were to someday reform and return to the fight against the Empire, the Lions would have to find not just a Black Heart, but all new Hearts.  But in their desperation from the threats of the war closing in around Arus, cut the ties they did, and the original five Lionhearts gravely returned to fight.

It’s been nearly a century since, the Lions only recently embarking on their specific quests to find the new Lionhearts.  Barring those individual encounters, this is the story as Rajalti had told it.  It’s the story the entire group was told, so as Shiro finds Keith in the room the Alteans are sparing him, he’s certain Keith knows Allura is, in fact, part of them.

“I’m sorry,” Keith mumbles at the edge of his bed, whetting his knife in such a familiar way Shiro barely registers him doing it.  “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Did you tell Allura that?” Shiro asks lightly, taking a seat next to Keith as they face the window.  Purple twilight falls in through the pane and mingles with the lit candles at Keith’s bedside.

Keith sighs, tired and obviously not wanting to fight anymore.  “I guess I just… We have to learn to trust all over again.”

“I know,” Shiro consoles, voice softening.  “But I think if anyone’s deserving of it, it’s these people.”

Not looking up from his knife, Keith deadpans, “I know I need to earn their trust too, but I don’t think anyone’s eager to put their faith in someone with the enemy’s blood.”

“They _do_ trust us; that’s why we’re here.”

“They trust _you,_ Shiro.  You’re always the one saving my ass, one way or another.  The only reason I’m even alive is because you kept me from the Galran draft.”  Bitter, Keith scoffs.  “All Mom and Dad wanted was to keep me away from the war, but here we are with the very Lions this war is about.”

There’s a pang in Shiro’s heart, and he places a hand on Keith’s shoulder.  “What mattered most to them—and me—was your safety.  I knew we wouldn’t be able to run forever, but after everything we went through, Altea was the last place I thought we could ever stay.”  He makes a vague indicative gesture to the room.  “But here we are, safe in the heart of it—thanks to Lance and Allura.  At least we know we’ll be on the right side of the war.”

“I think it was more the Lions than Lance,” Keith mutters, albeit with a little less distaste this time as he sets his knife on the bedside table.

In sympathy, Shiro chuckles.  “Come on, Keith, if we can’t get along with everyone, this whole thing is gonna get a lot harder than it needs to.  Lance can’t be that bad.”

“He hates me.  You heard him.”

“He probably wasn’t thinking either,” Shiro assures him.  “He and Allura have always been close, but with Queen Alís falling ill after this whole Leonic Angel thing, the Princess has been more than busy.  I’m sure Lance is just frustrated.  You two should really get to know each other better; we do live in the same castle after all.”  Shiro nudges him, trying to lighten the mood.  “You need to bond as Lionhearts anyway; making friends first can only help.  Talk to him.”

Keith rolls his eyes so hard Shiro’s sure it has to hurt.  “I’m afraid if I let him start talking, he’ll never stop.”

“I’m sure he’s feeling lonely; you’d have that in common.”

“I’m not _lonely,_ ” Keith argues a little too quickly before his gaze drops.  “I’m just... not like you, Shiro.”  The corner of Keith’s mouth betrays him with a smirk, and his tone becomes airy in false mockery.  “I can’t just knock into the love of my life in the middle of the street and set up a secret rendezvous like it’s nothing.”

Off-guard, Shiro sputters with nervous laughter, “Wh—That’s not—How did—What did Lance tell you about the market?”

“So it’s true,” Keith teases, demeanor shifting entirely into soft amusement as he cocks a curious eyebrow.

“It’s just—he’s not—”  Shiro sighs, blushing.  “I try to take _one_ day for myself, and I’ll never get to live it down, will I?”

Keith laughs.  “Are you seeing him again?”

“Tomorrow,” Shiro relents.  Rolling his eyes this time, Shiro rises to his feet and turns to leave for his own quarters before anyone else can pick on him.  “I’m going to bed now.  You, start making friends.”

He takes only a few steps before the subtle shift in Keith’s tone stops him.  “Shiro?”

Shiro casts his eyes back over his shoulder, slight concern in his gut.  “Yeah?”

Keith’s brow furrows the way it does when he’s trying really hard to figure out how to articulate what he means.  “I’m glad something normal is happening to you for once.”

“I don’t know if I would consider the situation _normal,_ ” Shiro laughs, more to himself since he still hasn’t said who Matt _is,_ but he offers Keith a reassuring smile.  “Then again, our definition of normal keeps changing.  But, I think I’m starting to like where it’s at right now.”

 

* * *

 

Thick shrouds of dusk thread through the trees, the last of the season’s fireflies perforating the shade as Matt nervously hugs his knees in an attempt not to be nervous.  The equally nervous snuffles from the large buck next to Matt are proof he’s failing.

Matt stands and rests a hand on the beast’s flank, the other hand coming to pet his snout.  The motion instantly begins soothing them both as Matt says mostly to himself, “Rover usually has dinner by now, so he won’t let her take much longer.”

The deer blinks kindly at Matt; perhaps his oldest friend.  There’s plenty of things about royalty Matt would forsake in a heartbeat, but if he ever chose to run away and hide himself within the unknown, he’d be sure to ride Ochre out there with him.  They’ve been together since childhood.  Not much of a talker, but Ochre’s always been there for Matt when he needed an ear even Pidge couldn’t lend.

Ochre licks Matt’s palm once before snapping his head toward a disturbance in the brush.  Ears flicking, the deer relaxes once Rover’s familiar raspy clucks come echoing through the trees in prelude to his glow-by-night markings.  The serpent, seeing Matt, streaks forward through the air and barrels into his chest, Pidge stomping into the glade shortly after.

With a scratch of Rover’s chin, the little beast crawls around Ochre’s antlers, the deer indulging him with gentle shakes of his head.  As Pidge approaches, Matt bites back a snarky remark about her being late once he notes her dour expression.

Ochre kneels so Matt and Pidge can mount, Matt now twice as glad he took the buck out for the day now that it’s getting dark; they’d make it back quicker before anyone has much time to worry.  “Why the long face?” Matt asks as he steers Ochre back through the forest, Rover still perched in his antlers and glowing like a tiny, greenish lantern.

Pidge takes a moment before sighing, “Just got a little too ambitious today, I guess.”

She can’t see his face, but Matt still makes a theatrical expression, joking fondly, “That doesn’t sound like something my sister would say at all.  Rover?”

Rover warbles, a sympathetic sound, and Matt is doubly curious of their uncharacteristically somber mood.

“You’ll get it figured out,” Matt consoles, assuming it has something do with Rover’s training, maybe a failed attempt at a trick.  “Don’t give up on it; you’re a good team.”

Rover coos in delight, sharing the optimism, but Pidge changes the subject.  “Are you still going out with Mystery Guy tomorrow?”

Her tone betrays nothing, so Matt answers, “Um, yes?”

Pidge seems to consider for a moment, wrapping her arms around Matt from behind and resting against him as they carry on through the forest.  Presumptuously, Matt tries to counter an argument she hasn’t made yet.  “It’s not that big of a big deal, it’s just… I’m curious, okay?  Just let me have this one day.”

Pidge laughs, apparently less opposed to the situation than she previously had been.  “I think you’re an idiot, but you’re an idiot who can’t be stopped; it’ll be more than one day.  Just don’t say I didn’t warn you if Mom and Dad find out and bring down the wrath.”

“Please, Mom and Dad are, like, the _least_ wrathful people in Arus.”

“Bring Mystery Guy home and prove that, then.”

“No, thanks.”

Pidge’s prior demeanor gone in an instant, she prods giddily, “Come on, I wanna meet him!  If he’s so exceptional, why is he a secret?”

“Because if it doesn’t work out, you won’t have a name to hold over me.”

“Is he even real?”

“You know," Matt scoffs, unintentionally thinking back to Shiro’s gentle dark eyes and the warm air he carried about him, “I’m not entirely sure.”

 

* * *

 

Matt decides to make it a point to arrive early.  He’s not sure why, not sure if it makes much of any difference, but it makes him feel a little more in control of his life.  So, before the morning sun begins to swelter, he wakes up a groggily oppositional Pidge.  He’s more excited than he’d anticipated or cares to admit, but Pidge caters by helping him get a story straight in case they have to come back apart, or extra late— _in case something, you know, happens?_ she’d said with an eyebrow raise.

Not wanting a chaperone, Matt shoos her off early on down the path, making his way to the forest glade alone.  Which was, arguably, a bad idea in retrospect, as Matt finds himself waiting for about an hour upon taking a knee-hugging seat next to the rolling brook.  He has just enough time to wonder what exactly he’s doing and what exactly he’s hoping for.

Rapid trains of thought like,  _Can this actually go anywhere?  What if Mom and Dad do find out?  What if he’s actually a horrifically boring or even evil person?_ all course through his mind, helping him achieve levels of adequate nervousness before movement in the foliage catches his eye.  Matt almost hopes that it’s not Shiro and is perhaps literally anyone else who might be coming to tell him this is a bad idea, but to both Matt’s dismay and delight, it is, in fact, Shiro.

Lost in the depths of his not-knowing-what-to-do-ness, Matt waves a hesitant hand, his posture shifting as he struggles to figure out whether to sit or stand.  Shiro approaches, and Matt decides to stand.

“Hi,” says Shiro, failing at disguising any amusement in his smile.

Matt nods in greeting.  “Hi.”

Shiro retrieves the pouch of pencils from the pack at his hip.  “You must have been itching to get these back.”

Accepting the pencils, Matt pretends he hadn’t forgotten about them.  “So, how’s Allura’s mom?” he asks good-naturedly, immediately realizing that’s definitely not the topic they should be discussing.

“I don’t think I’m allowed to tell you that,” Shiro says.

“Right, right,” Matt scoffs.  “I know, I was just, uh, sorry.”

“Are you okay?”  Shiro cocks his head with a curious smirk, a hint of genuine concern in his eyes, and Matt’s positive he’s shrinking under that gaze.  “You seem nervous.”

“Why would I be nervous?” Matt deflects poorly.  “I’m just... eager to get started.”  And that’s not a lie.  Matt grins, mentally steadying himself as he hands Shiro the staff Pidge always uses.  He’s sure she wouldn’t mind, and even if she would, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Whatever _does_ happen today will be his own, a sort of indulgent secret that belongs to him, and that prospect alone emboldens him once more.  “I hope you can keep up,” Matt taunts, knowing full-well he likely doesn’t stand a chance against a gladiator like Shiro.  But, this is the one opponent he probably wouldn’t mind losing against.

Shiro, still reluctant, regards him curiously before accepting the offer, and he takes a moment to admire the carved branch before sinking into a stance Matt is sure has to be automatic by now.  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Shiro says.

Eyes rolling and feet shifting on the moss carpet, Matt assumes his own position.  “You’re the one who’s hesitating.”

“You’re right.”

“If you’re thinking about going easy on me, don’t,” Matt prods, adjusting his grip on his staff.  “Come on, _Champion._  Show me what you’ve got.”

Shiro shakes his head with a laugh before scanning his eyes over Matt—probably to assess potential vulnerabilities like a real fighter, but Matt still blushes.  He strikes first to distract himself from that, but Shiro blocks him easily.  Regardless, the tension Matt hadn’t noticed was there begins to ease now that they’re finally moving.

“You’re impatient,” Shiro says with a smirk, their staffs crossed.  Their hands are almost touching, and Matt scolds himself for noticing.

“Consider this an ice-breaker,” Matt excuses.  “Now: for real this time.”

Shrugging away the butterflies in his stomach, Matt steps back and they start their spar fresh.  He tries to take his technique seriously without making it a competition, but he can’t deny thinking Shiro would be impressed if he _could_ best him.

 _Don’t think about that.  He’s just a sparring partner_ — _a really pretty sparring partner._

Matt initiates this round with a graceful sweep of his staff.  It’s been so long since he’s sparred at all, Pidge being so busy with whatever Rover’s training is, that he’s thrilled merely to be back at it.

Shiro isn’t at all disadvantaged by Pidge’s shorter branch, and he easily guards against Matt’s blow yet again.  Matt knows to use his smaller size to his advantage as Pidge always does, focusing more on agility and accuracy versus brute strength.

Before long, Matt falls into the right rhythm, a familiar rhythm that doesn’t falter due to his blatant attraction to Shiro.  He pivots about, unfettered, movements light and quick hoping to gain some advantage, but also hoping not to end the session too early.  He’s having fun, and the unwavering smile on Shiro’s face suggests he is too.

Shiro, not at all lax, easily keeps up with Matt’s speed.  For every twist of Matt’s arms, Shiro matches with his own to meet in the middle.  For every strike of Matt’s branch, Shiro evades with such skill it was as if they’d rehearsed until, at last, Matt lets his competitive nature take over and he lunges with finality.  He glances his staff off of Shiro’s and, with an adept turn of the wrist, holds the end just under Shiro’s chin.

Shiro raises his arms in surrender, seemingly impressed, but Matt squints at him suspiciously for a moment before retracting his staff.  “You let me win.”

Shiro tries to feign innocence, but a twitch of the lips betrays him.  “I would never.”

“I told you not to hold back with me.”  Matt drives a finger into Shiro’s chest for emphasis, feeling extra fiery now—not angry, not offended, but definitely motivated to win.  “Don’t patronize me.”

A genuine apology spreads through Shiro’s expression.  “I wasn’t patronizing, I swear.”  He tucks his head a moment in submission, and Matt becomes extremely aware of how close they are.  He feels a flush, but makes it a point not to step away as Shiro speaks with consideration.  “I was only curious.  I’ve discovered you can learn a lot about a person through the way they fight.”

Matt cocks his head.  “Oh?  So you accepted my challenge to analyze me?”

“More or less,” Shiro laughs a little nervously, licking his lips before elaborating.  “Naturally, a person’s build, the terrain, and often culture or tradition can play a part in someone’s fighting style, but their personality can be just as influential.”

Resting his weight on his staff, Matt inquires with genuine interest, “So what have you learned?”

Shiro taps the end of his own staff against Matt’s ankle.  “You move light.  You’re quick to react, sometimes so quick that you react to something before it even happens.  I think that’s because you anticipate every possible action from you and your opponent, which can get overwhelming, so you rely on impulse before you can overthink.”

Raising his eyebrows, Matt scoffs half-heartedly.  “Those fortune-tellers in town are getting a run for their money.”

“Did I overstep?”

“No, no.  I’m intrigued, and I like hearing about myself.  What else?”

Shiro laughs softly, a really wonderful sound to Matt’s ears, and he tilts his head.  “Let’s go again, and I’ll see if I learn anything new.”

“Fine,” Matt concedes with an unrestrained grin, entirely invested now.  “But _don’t_ hold back this time.”

Taking a few steps backward, Matt could have hardly expected such a mischievous smirk from Shiro as they wield their staffs once more.  Raising his arms, Matt braces for the second round but last minute decides to strike first, rather informally, thinking maybe he could catch Shiro off-guard.

Matt is sorely mistaken as Shiro defends with ease and expertly hooks the end of his staff under Matt’s, disarming him immediately.  In a panicked fumble to regain his hold, Matt fails to defend against the gentle but strong sweep at the back of his legs. He tumbles to the ground right after his staff, and before he can even process the defeat, Shiro is helping him back to his feet.

At first embarrassed by such an amateur display, Matt is quick to concern himself with other things, such as: the cocky look on Shiro’s face, the strength with which he pulls Matt upright, and the way Shiro doesn’t release Matt’s hand right away even after he’s steadily upright once more.

Pride returning in a moment, Matt lifts his chin to regain some dignity.  “What did that tell you?” he huffs.

“That you underestimate me,” Shiro laughs.  He’s still holding Matt’s hand.  They are… very close.

Matt hopes the physical exertion and late-summer heat serve as enough explanation for the flush in his face.  “I guess I never thought about movement as its own language before.”

“Fighting is like a conversation in some ways.”  Shiro smiles faintly.  “There’s a give and take.”

Matt nods.  “Two people moving in accordance with one another, communicating through their bodies.”  Neither has let their gaze stray from the other’s.  “I’m sure you could do that with more than just fighting.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Matt offers, “Like dancing.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Shiro agrees without hesitation, and Matt decides to believe he’s imagining the little bit of red in his face.  Then, with a small laugh, Shiro dismisses, “I’m not really a dancer though.”

“Well, if you think about it, fighting is just violent dancing.”

Shiro smiles and concedes with a shrug.  “Well, in that case...” he says, bringing Matt’s hand to his lips for a courtesy kiss.  “Best two out of three?” he suggests, finally letting go of Matt’s fingers to once more grip his staff.

Matt nearly swoons at the gesture before resuming his own stance. _You smooth bastard._

They pace each other, and something changes in the air between them; there’s a different kind of spark in Shiro’s eyes that Matt can’t be sure isn’t reflected in his own.  Though they’ve slowed themselves, Matt’s heart beats faster and his skin feels hot all over.  Perhaps it’s the summer air, but perhaps it would be unfair to give Shiro so little credit.

 _No wonder he never lost,_ Matt thinks to himself.  _How could anyone have bested this guy when he’s so… distracting?_

“Your move,” Shiro says after neither has taken any initiative.

Matt bites his lip in thought for a moment.  “You’re quick in combat, but what about in pursuit?”

Shiro’s brow furrows, and he straightens.  “What?” he asks, but Matt’s already tossed his staff aside and backs away from Shiro with playful confidence.  Shiro starts a slower pace after him.

Matt shrugs.  “I told you to try and keep up,” he says before turning around and racing into the trees.

Shiro doesn’t miss a beat.  “Seriously?” Matt hears him laugh before he’s running close behind.

Matt knows these woods like the back of his hand, and with giddy and nervous exhilaration fueling him, he leads Shiro in a circle around the glade.  They run in bursts, Matt constantly checking on Shiro behind him as they weave through the trees whose leaves filter the sunlight into dappling fragments upon the verdant underbrush and setting particles aglow midair.

Shiro deftly stays close after Matt, lunging once in a while for his arm.  Frankly, Matt’s a bit smitten by the way Shiro plays along with him, the way they laugh and tease back and forth, working off each other’s wit.  Together they draw out their improvised game of “don’t look away from each other but also don’t trip on the roots while you wander aimlessly in a circle in this flirty game of tag.”

Matt closes the lap, redirecting himself toward the clearing once more in a final dash.  Quick to catch up, Shiro grabs hold of Matt’s wrist and pulls back just enough to let Matt know it’s over.

Matt laughs, but he twists around and pretends to still put up a fight until Shiro manages to grab his other wrist.  Both of them panting and red-faced as their laughter subsides, they move a little closer.

Matt makes no effort to free himself from Shiro’s grasp.  “We’ll call this round a draw,” he says.

Shiro furrows his brow, amused.  “It’s not a draw if you forfeit.”

“I didn’t forfeit; I used my speed and agility to try and gain the upper hand.”

“And look where that got you.”  Shiro tugs Matt’s arms gently, inching a bit closer.

Matt smiles as he shamelessly glances to Shiro’s lips.  “I’m right where I wanted to be.”

Shiro smiles in expectancy, about to lean in, but with a unanimous gasp they both recoil, Matt losing all train of thought at the sudden spectacle before him.

“You’re glowing,” is all he can manage to say, however obvious.  But it is true.  Shiro is quite literally alight, his skin a spattering of what Matt can only describe as starscapes—violet starscapes—reminiscent of those Matt takes such solace in on the clearest of nights.

Shiro’s face and arms are freckled by constellations and dusted by nebulas, brightest where Matt’s skin touches his.  Matt stares in awe, eyes following the trails of light as they travel up to the roll of Shiro’s sleeves, mimicking the stream just next to them as the patterns coil up his face and shimmer like slow fireworks, or those glittery oil lamps Matt always sees burning at festivals.

Matt redirects his gaze to meet Shiro’s again.  He looks just as astonished as Matt, but a somber understanding weighs his voice as he breathes, “I can feel you.”

Broken from his trance, Matt finds his own voice, but he still can’t seem to grasp any words.  “You… what?”

Shiro visibly steadies himself, hands falling to his sides as he straightens.  “There’s something I have to show you.”

 


	4. Sanctuary

****Shiro braces himself for Matt’s reaction as the prince glances between Shiro and Rajalti.  The Black Lion looms over them both, her fur still shimmering with the magical remnants from the power she’d used to travel near-instantly from the Altean hollow to here in the glade.  Outwardly, Rajalti manages to stifle her panting, but Shiro can feel her exhaustion from such a feat; even if he couldn’t, he’d felt it firsthand when he’d traveled with her the day they’d bonded and fled the colosseum, so he knows how much energy the teleporting ability takes.

“So it’s true,” Matt says as more of a confirmation than a question.  “The Lions are back.  And that was you; _you_ were the purple lightning.”

 _And you are the secret with a secret,_ Rajalti responds with a sly glance to Shiro.   _It would seem we have much to discuss._

Matt fidgets by the babbling stream, the sound of which is the only sound while he tries to process with a sigh, face crinkled with a very serious look of analysis.  It’s charming—it’s the same face he’d made when trying to remember who Shiro was when they’d first met, and the face he’d made trying to best Shiro during their spar.

Shiro too has been trying to make sense of it to both himself and Matt since summoning Rajalti.  The purple visions, the way he’d been enveloped by the very essence of Matt once the magic was triggered… The connection is Amaria, no doubt.  But it’s different than Shiro’s bond with Rajalti; it’s not mutual—Matt didn’t feel anything when they’d touched—and rather than feeling like an explosion or a call-to-arms of sorts like when Shiro had bonded with his Lion, the bond with Matt felt more like a gentle incoming tide that filled Shiro carefully and calmly.

Even though they haven’t been touching since—both of them deeply unsettled, if for different reasons—Shiro’s remained hyper-aware of Matt’s presence.  A comforting warmth spreads through him even in their shared confusion, an odd invisible radiance coming from where Matt sits just feet away. It’s… distracting.

Shiro realizes he’s become more preoccupied with his awareness of Matt than the actual situation and grows embarrassed—doubly so with the wash of Rajalti’s curiosity, appraising them both.

“So, what, we’re like... soul mates or something?” Matt suggests with a wry laugh, the bitter tone stinging Shiro in a way he can’t explain.

 _You sound skeptical,_ Rajalti hums, tail-tip twitching with interest.  Her near-habitual calming aura embraces Shiro gently from within as she seeks to ease his distress.

“Sorry if I wasn’t exactly prepared for this today.”

Wincing, Shiro tries to explain in spite of his own uncertainty.  “It’s more like we’re… soul- _bonded._ ”

“Did you know this would happen?” Matt accuses before Shiro has a chance to say anything further.  “Is that why you ran into me in the square?”

Shiro blinks.  “What? No, I had no idea that this—It was all just—”

“Right, right.  The whole _fate_ thing.  I got it.”

“Will you just let me—”

 _There is no one at fault,_ Rajalti interjects in her usual soothing tone, violet eyes holding Matt’s with unintended intensity rooted in her protective nature—Matt shrinks a bit under her gaze.  _But, for at least one moment, there must have been something about you that Shiro wanted more than anything—enough that Amaria connected you to him._

 _Okay, you could have worded that a little differently so it doesn’t sound like I’m a creep,_ Shiro mutters privately to his Lion, flustered.

“Amaria… Like, the love spell?” Matt ventures, surely no less embarrassed judging by the hint of pink in his cheeks.

 _There is a bit more to it than that._  Rajalti ducks her head, conceding.   _But_ _it is essentially a magic of love, yes, though more the promise of it than the cause._

“Oh, well, then. _That_ makes it less awkward.”

Shiro asks, “Are you making fun of this?”

Matt sighs, a desperate look on his face.  “No, but—come on, you have to agree this _is_ awkward at the very least.  We just met, and the next thing I know, I’m basically told I’m ‘bound to your heart’ and you can ‘feel me’ so we’re gonna fall in love and that’ll help you win the war because you’re _a_ _Lionheart._  This is—there’s a lot of pressure here, don’t you think?”

 _Love can mean many things, young prince,_ Rajalti says.  She’s actually amused by this, Shiro notices, and he wonders if the hint of jest in her voice is as evident to Matt.   _Do not get so carried away by the prospect of romance._

Matt rolls his eyes, blushing harder in spite of his defiance.  “Semantics.” But then he loses some of his fire, the juxtaposition making him seem so vulnerable in a way that plucks at something in Shiro’s chest.  “I’m just saying, this is a little... intense? I mean, I dunno, what if it turns out we don’t like each other?”

“Do you not like me?” Shiro tries to joke.

“No!  I mean—no, that’s not—I didn’t mean—That’s just it: we don’t _know_ each other, and, just—it’s—this is _weird._ ”

Shiro furrows his brow, about to offer consolation since it’s not like he hasn’t been having similar thoughts, but Matt hurries to correct himself.  “Not that—I’m sorry, I don’t— _you’re_ not weird, but just, _this_...”

Hesitant, Matt demonstratively takes Shiro’s hand.  In a violet flash, Shiro’s skin illuminates at the touch, the light of the magic rippling up his arm bringing with it another dense wave of emotion not his own.  Matt’s uncertainty is far stronger than he’s been letting on—unless, of course, that’s just the feeling of it combining with Shiro’s own uncertainty.

Shiro stifles a gasp, retracting his hand in reflex, and Matt draws back his own hand.  The lingering feeling of Matt’s confusion and concern echo in Shiro’s mind even without his touch.

“Sorry,” Matt says, earnest.  “Is it—Does it hurt?”

“No, no, it’s just…”  Shiro rubs at his arm absently and lets out a soft laugh.  “Weird.  It’s intense for me too.”  Effortfully, he tries again to explain.  “With Rajalti, it’s like I can feel her always, so I guess I’m used to her, uh, emotional presence by now.  But with you… it seems like it’s only when we touch, or when we’re close enough that I can sort of… pick up your vibe?”

Matt knits his brow, still disbelieving but sounding like he’s starting to take this seriously as he holds out his hand once more.  “So, every time I touch you, you’ll light up, and that means you can… feel me?”

Reaching his own hand out, Shiro meets Matt’s halfway in order to confirm, and it appears that is exactly the case.  At the second burst of light, Matt and Shiro retract their hands again in surprise.  They share a nervous laugh, exchanging bewildered glances that, in spite of previously voiced concerns, reflect each other’s growing intrigue, and perhaps even a thrill at the prospect of something so intimately unusual.

After a strangely heavy silence under Rajalti’s observant stare, the Black Lion begins to speak as if voicing her train of thought.   _The Leonic Angels, as a pride, are linked at their core by the magic of Amaria.  Long ago, when the spell was first cast by King Cosra, known as the White Lion,_ _the magic was unknowingly yet immediately set to pervade through generations, ensuring both Lion and Heart could always find each other in times of impending strife._

Her tone grows wistful, and Shiro’s heart aches in time with hers as she recalls a past Shiro could never fathom. _A Leonic bond is one that transcends the boundaries of time, space, and self.  When one such bond breaks, by death or any other means, the magic of Amaria moves on at once to the next Heart where it lies dormant until his Lion can find him and awaken their bond._

As she speaks, Matt watches her with utmost attention, all signs of his adamant opposition gone.  Shiro watches Matt in turn, though he can’t be sure what it is he’s looking for in the way Matt’s brow creases and his eyes seek to hold Rajalti’s, no longer hindered by the weight of her ancient starry gaze.  Matt’s desire to understand seems to have overtaken all of that, and Shiro can’t deny a little ping of admiration in the way Matt’s adapted to the situation so quickly.

Rajalti continues, a little lighter now, but thoughtfulness still deepens her tone.   _The strength of Amaria’s magic grows more potent as it ages, and with each Leonic bond that is forged, something new and magnificent tends to come with it.  Perhaps I have underestimated the strength of the spell and how far it may reach._

“Are you saying this kind of thing has never happened before?” Matt asks, voice low to contradict the feigned nonchalance.  Shiro takes a deep breath, feeling as if he’d been forgetting to breathe at all.

 _Usually my Lions and I will gain a new power upon the formation of a new pride, and our Hearts might even gain gifts of their own._ Rajalti tilts her head.   _However, Shiro and the other Lionhearts have yet to awaken their own bonds, so the rest of us cannot yet access our full potentials.  But it would seem you have awoken something within Shiro even we could not unleash._

Shiro can feel the heat flood his face, wanting to justify himself but not even sure how this happened.  What _had_ been his desire in that moment, a need so great it triggered the deepest essence of a magic driven by the heart?  Surely there was more to it than a little flirtation.

Matt narrows his eyes, then slides a glance over to Shiro with renewed, shy interest.  Shiro thinks he wants to be snarky, but there’s an earnest twinkle in his eye as he says, “And here I was afraid you were gonna turn out to be boring.”

Shiro laughs, too relieved to be offended.  His breath grows warmer in his chest, the faintest honey taste on his tongue as Rajalti’s own subtle pleasure washes over him.

 _I believe it would be of great benefit for you to meet the other Lions and their Hearts,_ the Black Lion tells Matt.

“There’s a protected hollow at the far edge of Altea,” Shiro explains.  “It’s where Queen Alís has been keeping the Lions safe all this time.”

Matt perks up but then considers.  “But that’s gotta be, what, a couple day’s ride at least?”

 _On your grounded beasts, perhaps, but I think you are forgetting something._ Rajalti’s ravenesque wings stretch slowly as she rises, the iridescent hues in her dark feathers catching the filtered sunlight, and Shiro’s heart swells at the sight of her before he seeks Matt’s reaction.

Matt blinks, looking between Shiro and Rajalti.  “Wait, wait, wh—flying?  Like… Up there?  In the sky?  I, um—”

_Have you a fear of heights, young prince?_

“Uh, not so much a _fear_ as an _opposition._  Heights mean the potential to fall, and falling means the potential to _die._ ”

“It’s easier than you’d expect,” Shiro says, but Matt scowls at him.

“Yeah, well, you were a _gladiator._   I’ve never really done anything _life-threatening_ before.”

 _Be careful, young prince,_ Rajalti teases, _or a less-intuitive lion might think you would not have faith in her flying._

“Oh, you’re just _loving_ this, aren’t you?”  Matt sneers. “All those years without a good laugh?  That’s the real reason your spell-thing picked me, isn’t it?  Just so you can amuse yourselves.”  Matt crosses his arms, looking more nervous than defiant.  “I’ve been perfectly content just _looking_ at the sky.  From down here.”

Shiro’s amusement comes from a place of sympathy, but it passes fast and he offers sincerely, “You don’t have to.”

Matt must not have been expecting that, his mouth parting as if to protest until registering Shiro’s words.

Shiro goes on, “Amaria or not, I’d never force you to be part of this if you don’t want to.”  He shrugs, cracking a shy smile.  “After all, I know you like to make your own destiny.”

Rajalti purrs next to Shiro, her pride in his integrity plain in the waves of her aura as both Lion and Heart keep their eyes on Matt.

Sighing, his tension ebbs.  “Well, I can’t _not_ go.  Are you kidding?  This is the stuff they write books about.  But, uh...”  Matt scans Rajalti’s enormous form.  “What about the whole teleportation thing? Isn’t that faster?”

Rajalti inclines her head.   _Faster yes, but also more conspicuous and exhausting_ — _for_ _all of us.  I try only to use it in emergencies.  We will simply fly high to stay hidden._

Matt flashes a tight smile.  “Great.”

“Seriously, it’s not that bad,” Shiro assures him, reading the apprehension on Matt’s face.  “In fact, I think you’ll like it.”

_We will not let you fall far._

Matt huffs, and Shiro stifles a laugh.  Rajalti is hardly ever so playful; she’s clearly taken a unique shine to Matt—not that Shiro hasn’t as well.

 

* * *

 

Underneath Matt, Rajalti’s muscles ripple and cause the rustling sound of feathers and fur.  Matt doesn’t dare observe, fascinating as it might be, keeping his eyes screwed shut and clinging desperately to Shiro’s waist.

“Easy on the vise grip,” Shiro chuckles, hand brushing Matt’s arm.  “We haven’t even left the ground yet.”

Matt peeks out from one eye, disgruntled but relaxing his embrace just a bit.  “I am not excited about this,” he grumbles into the cloth of Shiro’s shoulder.

 _Keep from looking down, and you will be fine,_ Rajalti offers in earnest—for once.   _Mind your breath; the air will thin as we ascend, but you are in safe hands with me and my cub._

Matt lifts his head to address Shiro with a smirk.  “She calls you her cub? That’s so— _oh, gods!_ ”

In a sudden bound, Rajalti’s powerful legs carry them forward away from the treeline, Matt cutting himself off mid-sentiment with a yelp.  His arms constrict around Shiro once more before Matt’s gut drops at the sensation of weightlessness.  Again he closes his eyes—he’s probably screaming but unable to hear himself over the thunderous flaps of Rajalti’s wings, the air rushing around his ears, and the brief joyous laugh from Shiro as he holds tight to his lion.

Both panic and altitude steal Matt’s breath, but Shiro holds a reassuring hand atop Matt’s at his waist as the sensation begins to settle.  The wind leaves Matt’s skin tingly so he can’t feel the ache of tension in his arms while he clenches his jaw, still squeezing his eyes shut.

“You can look now if you want,” Shiro says, voice louder halfway through the sentence when Matt’s ears pop.

At Shiro’s voice, Matt in fact relaxes, and his inherent curiosity overrides his self-preservation.  He opens his eyes, squinting against the rush of air that carries away his astonished breath of, “Woah.”

Holy gods, he’s _flying._

Like, in the _sky._

Matt lets out an exhilarated laugh, loose hair whipping around his face.  His skin is damp—all around him stretch the vapors of cloud he’s never imagined would feel so cold and dense.  In the distance, soft silhouettes of mountains and cities are cast aglow in the golden light of day.  Matt can see for miles; he recognizes the borders of his own kingdom and the faint landmarks of those neighboring.  He drinks in the vastness of all of Arus, feeling like he’s discovered something new despite being in this land his whole life.

Disregarding Rajalti’s prior warning, Matt dares to look down.  Far, far below, through the thin cloud cover and flocks of birds passing underneath, Matt sees what he knows to be familiar land from this unfamiliar perspective.  The thick, lush forest he’d only known as a canopy is now sprawled as a carpet across valleys whose shadows Matt doesn’t recognize from up here.  He identifies the pastures used to raise the cervine steeds for his kingdom.  Matt thought he’d known those grounds like the back of his hand, but as their ascent levels, he realizes there is always more to be seen.

“This is incredible!” he laughs.

Unhindered by the turbulence, Rajalti’s echoing voice nearly startles Matt.   _Your reservations seem to have been fast-resolved._

Matt nods, eyes scanning around to take in everything he can.  After a beat, he realizes he’s breathing easier than he theoretically should.  “Shouldn’t we be, like, sick this high up?”

“Rajalti is able to manipulate pressure in a small field,” Shiro explains.  Matt only now realizes he’s still pressed close to Shiro’s back despite no longer needing to cling for dear life—embarrassment creeps hot up his neck, but he’s still too nervous to let go as Shiro goes on.  “It’s one of her abilities; it lets her fly higher than any of the other lions.  From up here, anyone below will just think she’s a big bird.”

Matt is simply wonderstruck.  “Incredible.  I can’t wait to see what the rest of you can do.”  He says it more to himself than Rajalti, but she purrs soft and deep underneath him and Shiro anyway in a moment of pride as her wings carry them through a heavier patch of clouds so thick that Matt can no longer see ahead or below, but in his awe, his fear has been shed entirely.  Feeling light as the air around him, Matt releases Shiro from his grip, bracing himself on Shiro’s shoulder to reach out and touch the cloudy veil.

The moisture is icy at this altitude, and Matt gasps as it chills his fingers.  Giddy laughter bubbles out from his chest as he leans forward, paying hardly any mind to Shiro until he’s laughing underneath Matt’s weight.

“Told you you’d like it,” says Shiro, hand resting atop Matt’s with a short flash of purple light.  Enraptured by the miracle of flight, Matt nearly forgot about the whole Amaria-soul-mingling-bond-thing.

Before even meeting the other Lionhearts, the magnitude of it all starts to sink in for Matt.  His breathing falters, legs going numb as they straddle Rajalti. Sobering, he refastens his arms around Shiro’s waist.  “My sister is never gonna believe this,” he exhales.

Shiro turns his head, sounding serious but unsure.  “You know you… can’t tell anyone about this.”

Matt opens his mouth to inquire, but Rajalti’s tone also grows grave as she interjects.   _We are all still working to develop our bonds as a pride.  There is much left to be done before we are ready to declare the return of the Leonic Angels.  You are part of us now, Matthew, so this secret is as integral to your safety as it is ours._

Matt blinks.  “Oh.  Got it.  Well, uh, believe it or not, I’m actually great with secrets.”

 

* * *

 

They fly on in mostly silence, but with Matt still pressed tight against Shiro, his bewildered mix of intimidation and enthrallment hum in the back of Shiro’s mind.  The prolonged contact has given Shiro a little more grasp on how this connection with Matt seems to work, but he’s only sure of this much: when they’re touching, Shiro can feel what Matt feels as he feels it, but he’s also aware of his own emotions that are inherently separate, but such an acute empathy for another person certainly has an influence on one’s own emotions.

_Easy, my cub._

Shiro didn’t realize he’d lost some control of his breathing until Rajalti enters his mind privately, emanating her aura of calm.

 _It is strange and overwhelming, yes_ — _I can feel the way it affects you and thus affects me—but we will understand it more in time.  I believe this will prove to be a great gift._

Shiro relaxes under her deliberate exudence, but doubt still clouds his mind as he responds, _I wonder how the others will react._

“Are you two, like, mind-talking about me right now?”

Shiro jolts at Matt’s interruption.  “Wh—You could hear us?”

“Wait, you were actually—”  Matt laughs, surprised.  “I was just joking because it got so quiet, but I guess of _course_ that’s another thing you can do, huh?”

 _Amaria connects us in ways far beyond any mortal bond,_ Rajalti hums to them both, tone warm yet somber.

“So… what am I thinking right now?”

“It doesn’t quite work that way,” Shiro says.

Before Matt can prod further, Rajalti tilts her wings, and Shiro only now notices the furthest coastal border of Altea on the horizon, and approaching beneath them is the familiar wood of their pride’s hollow.

 _We are almost there,_ announces Rajalti.  _I have already summoned the others to meet us._

Shiro braces as they ready to land, but the shift in flight startles Matt into re-constricting Shiro’s midsection with a tiny whimper, squeezing half the air from Shiro’s lungs.  Matt’s nervousness resurfaces, but Shiro suspects it’s less about the flight now than what awaits on the ground.

With her typical but never unimpressive grace, Rajalti lands at the edge of the forest, crouching low for Shiro to help Matt dismount.  Their need for discretion is less pressing out here; this side of Altea is largely overgrown and abandoned after the assaults from Zarkon’s armies eradicated so many Altean people.  Most survivors moved closer to the castle at the adjacent border for both their own and their rulers’ safeties.

It’s always been peaceful here; sea breezes over the ground, tumbling waves, and shorebirds are the only sounds to be heard.  The air is sharp with salt and grass, and though this area’s neglect could be considered lonely and sad, Shiro’s delighted in it ever since he first came.  He’s never considered himself a lover of the water, but he’d been so tired of roaring arena crowds and the stench of the Galran barracks that most anywhere could have been a divine reprieve.

Rajalti likes it here too, Shiro knows, though of course for more sentimental reasons.  Still, he cherishes the way her vague tension eases even further now that they’re back home, her neck arching as Matt drinks in the ocean air.

“I’ve never been so far away from home,” he admits.  “I’ve never even been in Altea before.”

 _This is the home of our pride,_ Rajalti says, taking the lead into the forest.   _I sincerely hope it becomes a second home to you as well._

Matt hesitates, looking to Shiro as the Black Lion nearly disappears in the shade of the trees.  His expression is one of distress, and Shiro smiles in encouragement.

“My legs feel weird,” Matt mutters, perhaps the last thing Shiro had been expecting him to say.  Shiro laughs in spite of himself, reaching an automatic arm in an offer of support for Matt as he begins to guide him after Rajalti into the wood.

Matt regains his land legs soon enough, but he stays close to Shiro’s side—not touching, but close enough that Shiro can still feel his anticipation.  Shiro tries to shrug off the buzz of it as the three of them come to a halt at the perimeter of the hollow’s concealment field long ago cast by Queen Alís.

Matt bumps into Shiro, sending a small ripple of his nerves through him while Rajalti turns her head to look at Matt.  Her violet eyes fluoresce, mystical against the way her dark fur blends and shifts along with the shadows of the foliage.  The glance alone brings Matt to full attention, but no one says a word as Rajalti proceeds through the barrier.

Shiro leads Matt close after her as they pass through the tunnel of thick bows and flowering vines that gives way to the protected hollow.  The dense brush begins to twist and waver in Shiro’s periphery—the veil meant to disorient and misguide those uninvited—and Matt’s renewed hesitation passes through the touch on Shiro’s shoulder.

“Magic,” Shiro whispers simply through a small grin.

Matt returns the smile, more curious now than frightful, but before he can speak, Rajalti enters first into the hollow.  She steps aside to reveal the other four lions and their Hearts all turning to face the entrance as Matt and Shiro pass through in turn.

In the path of his companions’ stares, Shiro absently brushes Matt’s fingers at his elbow before Matt can pull back.  At the brief amethystine response, Shiro can’t deny a hint of delight in the way he feels Matt’s heart skip as he takes in the sight of the pride and breathes for maybe the hundredth time today, “Woah.”

_Welcome to our sanctuary._

Sitting on her haunches, Rajalti blinks kindly at Matt then shares a glance with each of the other lions as Matt takes a few steps forward.  Shiro stays at his side, a hand hovering at his back as the Lionhearts approach to better assess the newcomer.  It’s only now Shiro realizes he hasn’t thought of how to explain this situation to the others.

“ _Matt?_ ”  Pidge’s shout shatters the ambience.  She tromps over the ground of the hollow, Rover racing in front to launch into Matt’s chest.

Matt grunts at the impact, recoiling in shock with a detached scratch of Rover’s chin.  “ _Pidge?_ ”  Matt’s voice mimics hers, his surprise surpassing that of anything else that’s happened today.

“You… know each other?” asks Shiro, just as off-guard.

“Yeah, dude,” calls Hunk from the center of the clearing.  He pauses mid-stroke of Kaerda’s pelt, and she blinks slow, unfazed.  “That’s Pidge’s brother.  What are you doing here, Matt?”

“Hunk?”  Matt processes for a beat, deciding where to direct his attention, then whips his head back to his sister.  Shiro nearly reels: the family resemblance is at once blindingly obvious. “ _This_ is Rover’s ‘training’?”

Pidge is just as quick to bite back.  “ _Shiro_ is the guy?”

Shiro blinks.  “What guy?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” says Lance.  “That’s your _brother?”_  Lance casts a curious glance between Matt and Shiro with an emphatic grunt from Irazu at his side, their suspicious expressions nearly identical.  “Pidge, did you know about this?”

“No!” Pidge shrills, then adding bitterly, “Well, not the specifics.”

“Oh, because you’ve been _so_ _forthcoming_ about everything,” argues Matt, matching her glare.

Lance looks to Shiro.  “What’s going on?”

Unprepared, Shiro works his jaw in a failed effort to tame the unrest.  Looking around, taking in the expectant, nervous gazes of his companions, Shiro registers Keith behind Branoc off to the side.  Distantly, he senses something off about the way the Red Lion’s fiery stare locks on to Matt, but the growing disarray from the others takes precedent in Shiro’s mind.  All the same, he can’t seem to find a place to start.

_That is enough._

Sensing Shiro’s distress, Rajalti projects her voice to the others, stern but calm in line with the aura she sends along with it.   _I brought Matthew for introductions, but I suppose you have all been previously acquainted?_  She rises to her feet, and the bickering quells as she mercifully explains in Shiro’s place, however simply.   _It would seem there is even more to Amaria than of what we were previously aware._

“You’re saying he’s one of us?” Lance blurts out, not quite as hostile, but his eyes are still narrowed.

“Trust me _now?”_ Matt teases.  Lance rolls his eyes, and Shiro hides an embarrassed smile, looking to Keith once more.  Angled away, he’s busying himself whetting his knife as if all is usual, but Branoc’s wary appraisal of Matt unsettles Shiro.

The others don’t seem to notice, however, and Hunk chimes in with more fascination now than concern.  “Man, the whole destiny thing can be kinda creepy sometimes with how all these connections can play out.”

“What do you mean?” Pidge asks Rajalti, seeming far more tense than the others.  Her eyes never leave Matt, but Matt’s distracted by Michlo’s curious sniffing at his hair.

Shiro hesitates, admittedly still caught up on Pidge being Matt’s sister—that means she’s actually Princess Katie, but if she never told Shiro or the others, Shiro probably shouldn’t say anything about Matt being Prince right now.  With a glance to Rajalti who encourages him with a small mental nudge, Shiro steadies himself with a breath.

“We’re kind of, um…” Shiro begins, still not the best at speeches—especially when he has no idea what he’s talking about.  He seeks Matt’s gaze to find sympathetic uncertainty lining his face amidst stifled laughter at the tickle of Michlo’s whiskers.

Shiro decides to show rather than tell.  He takes Matt’s hand again, lacing their fingers together more in experiment than intimacy, and the other Lionhearts gasp, the Lions perking up in further attention at the glow of Shiro’s skin.  He tells them, “We’re not completely sure what this means yet, but… Yes, Matt is one of us.”

“But there are only five Lions,” Pidge says, regarding her brother with only more stiff confusion.

 _He is not a Heart_ , Rajalti offers, the faintest lilt in her tone despite her own lack of full understanding.   _He is perhaps rather... the Heart of a Heart._

“Can you be _less_ specific?” Lance deadpans, leaning into Irazu as she rests her chin on her paws with a disinterested groan.

A chiding response from Kaerda hushes them both, and Hunk jibes with a mischievous grin.  “So, lemme guess: you two are in _looove_ or something?”

Shiro scowls against the heat in his face, sputtering, “Wh—no, why does everyone keep—We just met!”  He sighs, regaining some composure and catching Keith’s eye for a brief moment before his brother looks away again.

Pidge and Matt are staring at each other with wordless interrogation, and Shiro isn’t sure how to proceed without encroaching on whatever potential dispute they need to have.  The silence from the group is brief but densely awkward, so looking to the Holt siblings, Shiro says, “Maybe you two should talk first?”

“Don’t mind if we do,” Pidge grumbles, yanking Matt by the sleeve and pulling him far from the others.

 

* * *

 

“Don’t tell me,” Matt says once Pidge has him behind a tree at the edge of the hollow, “Rover is secretly the White Lion and his training involves mastering the primal starry magic of ancient times past.”

Rover chirrs at Pidge’s shoulder.  She isn’t amused; she’s red in the face.  “What the _hell,_ Matt.”

Matt isn’t amused either.  “You lied to me.”

“Because this is a _secret!”_  She glances to Shiro looking uncomfortable in the clearing, inaudibly speaking to the other Lionhearts.  “So the whole magic touch thing is why Shiro was so special?”

“No!  That just happened, like, right now basically.”  Matt shakes his head in frustration, changing the subject to what he considers more important.  “What about you?  All this?  How long have you been a Lionheart?”

Pidge stares at him, brow furrowed like she wants to be angry but can’t find a good reason, so it turns into more of a nervous expression.  She sighs.  “It was the day after the solstice—you had overslept after the party so Rover and I managed to sneak out by ourselves since Mom and Dad were busy with the courtiers anyway.  We were going to meet Hunk at the bakery, but at the very edge of the forest, Michlo appeared—literally just appeared; she can camouflage herself so it’s like she turns invisible.  It freaked Rover out, but I remember having this weird feeling like… deep inside, I’d known she was waiting for me, and I had this sense of relief that she’d finally found me.  I reached for her, and the next thing I knew I was in this hollow with Lance, Keith, and the other Lions.

“I was the third Lionheart at the time, and I ended up helping Kaerda find Hunk.  Shiro was the last of us—Rajalti was having a hard time picking up on his latent Amarian energy, but she told us that when she found her Heart, we would see something like purple lightning in the sky, and it would mean she’d be bringing the Black Heart home.

“One day, she’d followed a trail of energy that she thought was the essence of her Heart, but it turned out to be some kind of illusory druid magic from the Galra.  Rajalti was ambushed, captured, and then sent to fight in the ring, but I guess as fate or coincidence or whatever might have it, Shiro was her opponent, and then… well, here we are.”

Matt finds it remarkably easy to process Pidge’s story—it certainly isn’t the first obscure thing he’s heard today.  But Matt’s gaze ends up lingering in the clearing on the only Lionheart who hasn’t spoken to him yet, assuming him to be the one named Keith.  With careful regard of the marks on his face, the color of his hair…  Matt narrows his eyes, trying to think.

“So, how do you know Keith?”

Pidge’s voice yanks Matt’s attention back to her.  “What?”

“It seems like you’ve met with everyone else at least once, so I guess I just assumed you had some kind of connection with Keith too.”

“Oh.  I dunno, I mean he looks familiar.  Maybe I just passed him in town once or something.”

Pidge shrugs, her fire quelled, but she’s still clearly uneasy.  “At least both of our secrets ended up being tied together.  That’ll make things easier to hide from Mom and Dad.  Does Shiro, um… Does he… know who you are?”

“Uh, yeah, I—I mean—”  Matt regards her curiously.  “Wait, do they not know who _you_ are?”

“I… no.  Except, I guess Shiro does now.”

“You haven’t even told Hunk?”

“I just…”  Pidge sighs, her gaze dropping in defeat, and Rover blinks softly with a low cluck.  “I guess I just wanted one part of my life to not be about being a princess.  Here, I can be Pidge, not Katie.  It felt good, but now… I think maybe it’s my fault we haven’t been able to connect as a pride.  Not being honest about my identity is keeping us all apart.”

“So tell them,” Matt says simply, though not without sympathy.  His sister is just as fed up with the life of royalty as he—he’s known that, but only now he realizes how selfish he’s been about it.  “They’re your team.  There’s no way it should change how they see you, right?  If anything it should make you guys stronger.”

Straightening her posture with resigned confidence, Pidge looks about to speak but catches herself, squinting at Matt.  “I can’t believe you almost got me.”

Matt cocks a brow.  “What do you mean?”

“I almost told you you’re right.”

“I _am_ right.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m gonna give you the satisfaction of saying it.”

They smile at each other, tension passed, and both return their gazes once more into the clearing.  Hunk and Lance are off to one side, Hunk looking like he’s trying to soothe Lance’s discontent while Keith and Shiro are having their own conversation by the coppery-colored Lion.  Matt only gives Keith a final glance before focusing on Shiro.

Apparently, he’d focused harder than he realized because Pidge’s voice at his ear startles him.  “So… have you kissed him?”

Matt stammers.  “I—What?  No!”

“Why not?  You were all atwitter from the minute you told me about him, and now you find out you’re basically soulmates, so isn’t that, like, I dunno, perfect?  Why _wouldn’t_ you have kissed him by now?”

“He said it was a soul _bond,_ ”  Matt corrects uselessly before he shakes his head, flustered.  “That’s not—It—This isn’t—You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Shiro’s not weird.  He’s a good guy.”

“I didn’t say _he_ was weird, I _meant_ —”

“Do you not want to kiss Shiro?”

“I will not hesitate to punch you in front of all your friends.”

“Oh, you _totally_ want to kiss him.”

Matt grabs his sister’s sleeve and shoves her back into the clearing.  “Tell them who you are right now so you can bond or whatever.”  He trails right after her, heat in his face but sobering as the pride turns to face the Holts.

Pidge freezes under their cumulative gazes, much like the way they’d all stared at Matt only moments ago, and Rover nuzzles her cheek reassuringly.  In accordance, Matt stands beside her and places a hand on her shoulder as she takes a deep breath.  “I uh… I haven’t been honest with everyone,” she begins.  “My real name is Katie… Katie Holt.”

The pride is uncomfortably quiet for only a moment, but there seems to be an air of understanding and acceptance that even Matt can pick up on.

Lance is the first to break the silence, clearly more surprised than the others.  “What? Wait, so you—you’re—that means—”

“I kinda figured,” says Hunk with a shrug.

Pidge blinks.  “You did?”

“I mean, I didn’t know _exactly,_  but you always acted a little too defiant when the royal families came up, so I guessed there was some connection.”

Matt murmurs to her, “You’re not exactly the _most_ subtle person.”

Pidge smiles at the others, embarrassed, but with spiteful discretion, she elbows Matt in the ribs.

“Plus,” Hunk adds with a warm grin, “Matt eats like he was raised in a castle.”

Matt laughs at the exposure, and Rover chirps happily between him and his sister.  Kaerda, warm as her Heart, looks knowingly to Michlo—Matt suspects maybe the Green and Yellow Lions hadn’t been as ignorant as Pidge had hoped.

Shiro speaks encouragingly.  “It’s good that you told us.  It’s a step forward for us as a team.”  Readdressing said team but finding Matt’s gaze, Shiro adds, “And I’m sorry I didn’t come forward earlier about my own distraction.”

Lance deadpans, “Okay, great, so we’ve got the complete set of royal heirs as part of the pride.  That doesn’t make things complicated.”

“It’s _been_ complicated,” Keith mutters for the first time next to Shiro, and Matt swears he knows that voice, but there’s no time to dwell.

Lance glares at Keith.  “Well, what about _you?_  Are you maybe the new Galran heir after Lotor?  Another secret royal we should be worried about?”

“What’s your problem?” Keith demands.

Shiro places a hand on each of their shoulders, the Blue and Red Lions lingering close by.  Matt exchanges a glance with Pidge, and by her expression he gets the sense this happens all the time.

“I think you could be more honest, too,” Shiro advises with subtle disapproval in his tone.  “Both of you.  Lance, what are you really so angry about?”

Behind her Heart, Rajalti inclines her head approvingly at Shiro’s approach, eyes flicking to Lance in patient anticipation.

Apparently Lance hadn’t been expecting the direct question.  He blinks at Shiro as if only now realizing his behavior, the Altean looking to Keith with a different brand of discomfort.

“I’m…” he begins uncertainly, the first lack of confidence Matt has seen from him so far.

The Blue Lion noses Lance’s shoulder and Red nudges Keith to take a step forward.  Both boys look remarkably uncomfortable, and Matt feels bad for finding a bit of humor in the way they’re being forced to make up like children, but the tension resets fast.

“Just say it,” Keith insists.  “You hate me because I’m part Galra.”

Lance flares, but the marks by his eyes seem to illuminate faintly—Matt’s pretty sure that’s how Alteans blush.  “No,” Lance tries to argue, “I hate you because—I mean I—”  He drops his head in shame and sighs.  “I don’t hate you.  I hate the Empire.  What they took from us, what they took from Allura…”

Lance clenches his jaw and takes a breath.  “I know she’s the princess, and she’s a strong leader and alchemist, but I still worry about her, but there’s only so much I can do to help.  And I guess all the helplessness turned into me taking it out on the wrong people.  And that wasn’t fair.  Just because you’re Galra doesn’t mean you’re one of them.  You _are_ one of us.  I’m sorry, Keith.”

Keith blinks, appearing sincerely off-guard by the sudden apology.  Next to Lance, his Lion puffs with pride, the purr rumbling so deep in her chest Matt is sure he can feel the vibrations in his feet.

 _Humility is a an honorable rarity, Lance,_ Rajalti hums in approval.   _Do not lose sight of it._

Lance’s marks glow deeper as he looks to both Lions, straightening his posture to meet Keith’s gaze.  Matt doesn’t think Keith is going to respond until Shiro passes him a glance, and he sets himself as if the words are a feat, though earnest.

“Sorry for not trusting the team, for not trusting the Lions.  It’s… We’ve… I’ll do better.”

The Red Lion cranes her neck, closing her eyes peacefully, and the clearing feels as though it’s grown warmer.  Keith scratches her chin and next to him, Shiro looks pleased.

“Well, uh, I don’t think I have any confessions,” says Hunk with a shrug after the sentimental silence.  “I’m an open book.  So… now what?”

Rajalti tilts her head, straightening on her haunches clearly proud of everyone’s honesty.   _Perhaps now you all feel a bit more assured in yourselves as a pride?_

As if in agreement, Michlo bounds over to swipe her big tongue over Pidge’s face.  Just then, Pidge gasps, as do Matt and the other Lionhearts as a flash of brilliant forest-green light forms a veil around Pidge, reminiscent of the light Matt had coaxed from Shiro’s skin.  Instinctive, Matt looks to Shiro, and the purple light is there again, but it’s now shrouding his entire body just like Pidge.  Around the clearing, all of the Lionhearts are being enveloped by starry, magical light in accordance with their Lions’ colors: Hunk in goldstone yellow, Lance in deepsea blue, and Keith in wildfire red.

Matt steps back, automatic, only able to stare in silent awe as the Lionhearts all glance to each other in equal astonishment.  At each of their sides, all of the Lions have risen to their feet, pelts and eyes flickering with the glow of stardust to match the light veils swirling around their Hearts.

“What’s happening?” Pidge asks for everyone.

 _Your hearts,_ says Rajalti, stunning violet eyes seeming to glow more with pride than magic as she looks between her companions.   _Your confessions have lowered your guards against one another, and now your hearts have opened for you to connect as a pride._

The Lions all stand closer to their partners, their ethereal magic mingling and forming hypnotic auroras of blended colors coiling and flowing in thick, ribbony clouds like starry silt.  

 _Lionhearts,_ Rajalti says, _close your eyes, and reach out to the essences of those around you.  Feel Amaria within and let it reignite the Leonic bonds the way it has always intended._

Matt watches, feeling like a forbidden outsider in this bizarre, illuminated ceremony of sorts that he could have never fathomed witnessing.  Rover darts behind him, startled but peeking over Matt’s shoulder to join as an additional audience member.

Matt gazes in wonder, the magnificent magic display before him stealing the breath from his chest and nearly blinding him as the various hues of light twine and expand around the pride before him, growing more intense and merge into a blast of white light shielding them all from view.

Matt has to cover his eyes, but he’s close enough that the spectacle still washes over him with a warm security, a sense of hope and excitement.  He hears the sound of all five Lions roar, and then the light begins to fade behind Matt’s eyelids. He and Rover peek out warily then sigh with equal enthusiasm at the glittering rain of white light fading around the Lions and Lionhearts.

Both somber and invigorated, Matt is filled with dense understanding, a knowledge weighted by the recollection of all the stories he wouldn’t have believed could ever be anything more.  Taking in the sight before him, Matt knows this is sign of something infinitely powerful to come and change not only his own world, but all of Arus: The Leonic Angels have returned.


	5. Like Starlings

Something Rajalti said earlier surfaces in Shiro’s mind: _in times of impending strife..._ Glorious and awe-inspiring as the spectacle may be, seeing himself aglow alongside the other Leonic Angels trips a sense of unease within Shiro.  It’s not just a spectacle; it’s a promise that this group will be needed for more detrimental things than magic tricks.

Even amidst the tsunami of the new awareness of his companions and their emotions, Shiro seeks Matt’s gaze from across the clearing upon sensing his own uncertainty as if he’s thinking the same thing.  The other Lionhearts, however, are justly preoccupied.  The white magic around them fades, but their expressions remain bright.

Hunk turns his hands over, examining himself as if expecting he’d somehow look different.  “That’s it then?  A few quick ‘sorrys’ and now we know everything about each other to bond?”

 _Not everything,_ says Rajalti warmly.   _That would of course be impossible._ _Forming this bond only means you are all at last open to each other, in your hearts and in your minds.  It is not the end of our efforts, but is the key to moving forward as a pride._

“How do you feel?” Matt asks, looking awkward as he approaches his sister.  Rover sniffs at her curiously, yelping when a lagging burst of light trickles down her finger as she reaches for him.

“Very weird,” she says with a laugh.

Matt flashes Shiro a smile, and Shiro can’t fight his own.  “Weird” seems to be the word of the day.

Shiro opens his mouth to say something, but he’s cut off by the silky timbre of a voice he’s never heard before—yet somehow, he knows it belongs to Irazu as she stretches her limbs luxuriously, shaking her pelt of the last particles of blue magic.

 _Oh, this energy is divine,_ the Blue Lion purrs.   _It feels as though I have finally awoken, as if I could soar for ages!  Would you not agree, Kaerda?_

The Yellow Lion yawns in accordance, her posture more reserved but no less relaxed.  Her husky tone is warm and spreads through Shiro’s mind like honey in the sun.   _Absolutely_.  _In fact, we should start now._

Lance and Hunk glance to each other’s Lions and then to each other, radiating excitement as they announce in unison, “I can hear her!”

 _A race, perhaps?_ rasps Michlo, her youthful cadence ringing like a bell as she bounces over to Kaerda and Irazu, wriggling with her typical energy—energy Shiro realizes now invigorates him as well.  Perhaps the Green Lion is the source of everyone’s immense enthusiasm.

Well, almost everyone.  Shiro can feel what is surely the Amarian equivalent of an eye-roll with Branoc’s smoky interjection.   _Yes, please, burn off some of the child’s energy.  It has only become more exhausting with this bond._

 _I am no child!_ Michlo refutes cheerily.   _We are the same age, Branoc!_

_Yet you are somehow still a child._

_Grumpy crone!_ Michlo bounds across the clearing in a fluttering leap, drawing a grunt from Branoc upon impact as they roll together.  Despite the Red Lion’s attitude, the warmth she radiates indicates that she’s making an effort not to indulge Michlo with her own joy.

Branoc’s warmth is so strong, in fact, that once she starts to get carried away in her romp with Michlo, the ground under her paws begins to wither.

“Uh, Red?” Keith says behind Shiro, noticing the extra heat from his Lion.

Unhearing, Branoc snarls in play, and from her maw bursts a puff of bright flame that barely misses Michlo’s ear.  The Green Lion nimbly ducks, and the flare soars through the air toward Lance and Hunk who shout and dash apart in opposite directions.  The ground where they just stood is a smoking ring of ash.  The Lions all flatten their ears, recoiling in surprise, and the Hearts turn to face Branoc.

“You breathe _fire?_ ” Lance exclaims.  “That’s so cool!”

“Well, it seemed more _hot_ than anything,” says Hunk, checking to make sure his back end didn’t get burnt.

 _That has never happened before,_ Branoc apologizes.  She’s quick to compose herself but still examines the scorch marks in confusion and then seeks the gaze of her Heart.  Keith betrays little more emotion than a bewildered lift of his eyebrows.

 _I believe I can take care of that!_ Michlo says, landing square on the spot of blackened ground in a single bound.  Straightening carefully, the Green Lion closes her eyes with uncharacteristic focus.

After a moment, green light leaks out from underneath her paws, growing brighter and pooling outward from where Michlo stands.  When she opens her eyes, the green light fades, and the ashen earth is no more.  Instead, the grass has grown back twice as healthy, lush and littered with a colorful array of tiny blooms.  Shiro wonders if maybe even the air feels just the slightest bit fresher.

 _Better?_ Michlo prompts, green magic still flecked in her eyes as she looks to Pidge for approval.

“That’s amazing!”  Laughing, Pidge dashes over to latch an embrace around her Lion’s neck.  “ _You’re_ amazing!”

Michlo rests her big muzzle atop her Heart’s head and purrs, shuffling her wings with restless delight at the praise.  Rover sniffs at the new growth, wary, but then he chomps down on one of the flowers to find it must taste good, for he lets out a gleeful warble and does a backflip.

Smiling, Shiro turns to face Rajalti, everyone else following suit.  His Lion exudes such pleasure as she regards her pride, deep voice crooning, _Your bonds have awoken new powers within your Lions._  She turns her head toward Matt, who dangles another flower playfully around Rover’s nose.   _Excellent work, young prince._

Matt’s posture straightens in alarm, and Rover successfully snatches the flower.  “Wh—Um, me?” Matt stammers.  “What did I do?”

_Had you not encouraged your sister to come forward, perhaps it might have taken far longer for us to take this step together._

“Hey,” Pidge disputes, “ _I’m_ the Lionheart here.  I’d appreciate some shared credit.”

Shiro smiles at her.  “I’m proud of you, Pidge, for owning who you are.  It’ll make us all stronger.”

The Green Heart nods in satisfaction, blushing slightly, Rover nestling in her arms to get comfortable until Matt playfully shoves his sister.

“ _Humility,_ Pidge.”  His tone is mocking, but his expression is warm.  Matt’s proud of his sister too, and she’s happy her brother is here despite the way they’ve begun aimlessly bickering.

Shiro casts a glance to Keith, a rare flicker of a smile at his own brother’s lips.  Their relationship has never been quite the same as the Holts’, never quite so carefree and youthful as they’ve come from very different worlds, but Shiro and Keith are no less close after all they’ve endured.  They’ve each learned to say and hear a lot from the other without many words, and through a shared look, Shiro knows Keith too believes that becoming Lionhearts, however demanding the weight of the role might be, has done more to aid in freeing them than burdening them.  They’re the happiest they’ve been in a long time.

Shiro’s not sure Keith would ever actually say those things out loud, but the way he’s quick to return his attentions to Branoc, the Red Lion always happy to have her Heart close, it assures Shiro his brother is on the right path.

A kind nudge in his chest draws Shiro’s gaze back to Rajalti, and she blinks at him in understanding his care for Keith.  She’s happy they’re here too.

“Come on, Matt, we have to show you this!”

Shiro jolts from his sentimentality at Pidge’s excited burst, and he sees her pulling Matt along by a fistful of his sleeve.  “I wasn’t completely lying about training Rover; I just wasn’t providing all the details.”

Matt catches Shiro’s eye, and they mirror each other’s apologetic smiles, but Pidge babbles on unawares as she drags Matt along to a farther side of the clearing.  “He has this like, thermal vision, right?  And Michlo can turn invisible, so we’ve been doing this sort of hide-and-seek practice…”

As Pidge’s demonstration begins, Matt looking mightily impressed, Shiro sighs against an unexpected weight in his gut.

Rajalti speaks to him through their private link, voice heavy with empathy.   _Have patience, my cub.  There has been much adjustment for all of us today._

 _I know I have to talk to him,_ Shiro says, _but I’m not even sure about what._

_You are bonded.  It is a powerful tie that can not always be articulated._

_He’s involved now because of me.  Don’t I owe him some kind of explanation?_

_You sound as though you expect him to be resentful._  Rajalti tucks her legs beneath her, lying to press against her Heart.  Shiro leans into the fur of her shoulder, enveloped and soothed by the scent of it—like that of a summer night’s rain.   _To have formed our bond as a pride means we have all found faith in one another.  But for us to find our truest strength, you cannot lose faith in yourself.  Accident or not, perhaps this Amarian bond with Matthew is for the best._

Rajalti’s large muzzle lowers enough to gently nose Shiro’s head, and she encourages him to look toward Matt who, oblivious, is invested in the show of his sister, Rover, and Michlo.  The Green Lion vanishes, Pidge counting to ten, then Rover’s big eye glowing as he hunts for Michlo in the surrounding trees.  Every time he finds her, Michlo materializes from a wavering veil, and she and Rover chase each other in circles before repeating the process.

Pidge and Matt laugh as they watch, Matt so enthralled Shiro can feel it from here.  He smiles, and his fingers begin to tingle.  Looking down, Shiro sees the very tips alight with a dim violet pulse.

 _He is happy to be here,_ Rajalti purrs.   _I think it is what he has been needing; perhaps it is what you both need._

Shiro laughs, sheepish, balling his fists to hide the shimmering glow.   _We just met._

_Then you should be excited, for there is plenty left about each other to learn._

Shiro isn’t convinced, but he doesn’t have time to debate further when Lance calls to Pidge from across the clearing.  “Hey!”  He and Hunk are mounted atop their Lions, Irazu and Kaerda eagerly kneading the earth under their paws.  “Are you doing this race or what?”

Pidge and Michlo stop their exercise, sparks of determination glinting in their eyes.  “Oh, you are _so_ on!” Pidge challenges.  Fluidly, she climbs onto Michlo as the Green Lion sprints to join the others, Rover squawking as he clings to Pidge’s sleeve, all of them buffeting Matt in their wake.

“Keith!  Shiro!” Hunk invites.  Kaerda is the only one not bunching up her muscles in preparation, eager to take off, but her eyes are still bright with excitement, head held high.

Michlo protests, _No!  Branoc has always been the fastest.  She is never any fun to race._

 _Oh, do stop being ever the sore loser, Little Green,_ Irazu chides impatiently with a weak bat of Michlo’s ear.  

Kaerda offers, _We have all gained new strengths; the field could at last be even.  Come, Branoc, and rest not on your laurels!_

The Red Lion examines her challengers, fiery eyes already blazing brighter at the chance to compete, but she looks to Keith to first seek his reaction.  He hesitates, but Shiro gives him a nod of encouragement—if ever there was a time for Keith to formally break the ice, it’s now.

Resigned, Keith sighs, and then his demeanor shifts into one Shiro hasn’t seen in a long time.  A wicked grin spreads across his face, his Lion growling in anticipation as she lets him mount.  Branoc dashes forward, leaving trail of heat to wash over Shiro as she hardly gives the other Lions a second glance.

“See you at the finish line!” Keith taunts, Branoc already off the ground in a red, feathery blur.

“Hey, you can’t do that!” Lance shouts with indignance.  A sour glare creases Irazu’s face as she takes off after Branoc with Kaerda and Michlo in close pursuit.  “We don’t even _have_ a finish line yet!”

 _How about this?_  Kaerda’s fur begins to shimmer with magic light that mimics the sun in a golden flash.  With a short roar and a yelp from Hunk who scrabbles to keep his hold, the Yellow Lion flaps her wings once with purpose and sends a ball of magic hurtling toward the earth.

It lands with a shower of golden sparks, scoring a fissure along its darting path before spiraling into an upward cloud.  The magic light swells fast then fades, and in its place at the center of the clearing stands enormous sandstone boulder, radiant with glinting flecks of a thousand metals.

Shiro admires the rock with a laugh, looking back to the Lionhearts in the sky who have little time for awe as their Lions hover above the treeline.

 _Three laps around the forest,_ Kaerda decides, not delaying her flight onward, much to the disapproval of the others.   _First to reach the boulder wins._

 _And here I thought I was the dramatic one!_ laughs Irazu, her voice fading along with the whooping of the Hearts as they race on, neck and neck, feather to feather.

“They’re amazing!” Matt sighs, suddenly at Shiro’s side.  He stares after the Lions in wonder.  “Even in the way they fly, how they all move together, feathers shining.  They’re like starlings.”

Shiro’s not watching the Lions anymore, but he fights past the sudden thickness in his chest to muster a simple, “Yeah.”

“Not a racer?” Matt asks Rajalti, not yet sparing Shiro a glance.  Perhaps, Shiro thinks, that’s for the better until he can get a hold of himself.  He can’t possibly keep doing this _every_ time Matt enters his space.

 _Oh, I am surely far too old for such things,_ the Black Lion says.

“Surely not,” Matt disputes with a grin.

 _A flatterer._  Rajalti turns her soft expression to Shiro. _I like him._

“They won’t be seen up there?”

_Alís’s protective field will disguise them so long as they stay close enough to the trees; even so there are few to witness much this far west._

There is a finally a moment of silence, but unfortunately Shiro finds it becoming awkward as he still struggles to seek a starting point within his vocabulary.  Knowingly, Rajalti regards them both then rises to her feet.

 _Nonetheless, I will reach to keep an eye on them._  With a powerful leap, Rajalti crosses the distance to perch atop Kaerda’s boulder, settling with eyes closed as she extends her awareness to each of the others, if only to ensure Matt and Shiro can finally have a moment alone—something Shiro’s not yet entirely prepared for when Matt finally smiles at him, adjusting his glasses.

“Hi.”

Shiro exhales.  “Hi.”

“So?” Matt prompts, curious stare flicking back to Shiro from Rajalti.  “What about you?  What’s your guys’s special new power?”

“I guess we still have to figure it out,” Shiro says distractedly.  “There’s a lot we still have to figure out.”

Faintly, Matt nods in consideration.  “You’re a good leader for them, I can tell.  It’s not easy to keep Pidge in check,” he adds with a smirk.

There’s a feeling in Shiro’s head reminiscent of a persistent gnat, and somehow Shiro can tell that means Matt’s got something deeper on his own mind.  It distracts Shiro long enough to stretch out an awkward beat, and it ends up being enough for Matt to press on.

“I still have trouble believing it.”

Shiro’s listening, but he can’t help noticing the way Matt’s eyes wander around Shiro’s face, probably following any shimmers of light.  Or maybe he’s searching for something else a little less conspicuous.  Shiro averts his own eyes regardless.

“The Lions?” he asks.  “Yeah, me too, I—”

“No, _you._  You’re hardly how I imagined _Takashi Shirogane,_ unconquered Champion of the Galran Arena.”

“What do you mean?”  Shiro ignores the way he jolts from Matt’s dictation of Shiro’s first name; no one’s called him that in years.  For some reason the ringleaders had always plastered it on the posters advertising his matches, but no one actually seemed to know him as anything other than Shiro, or _Champion._

“You’re…”  Matt shrugs, smiling.  “Warm.  I guess I would have expected a life of survival like that to make you cold, distant.”

“I made sure not to let it.”  A stone sinks in Shiro’s heart with the flood of memories from the colosseum, enough that Rajalti stirs in the middle of the clearing.  Somberly, he confesses almost to himself, “Sometimes I wonder if it was the right thing.”

Matt observes Shiro a moment, eyes alight but voice softening.  “You do that a lot, don’t you?” he muses.  “Wonder if you’re doing the right thing?”

“Now who’s doing the fortune-telling?” Shiro chuckles wryly.  He swallows, trying to decipher Matt’s expression staring back for a few quiet seconds.

Matt exhales sharply.  “Can I…?”  He reaches for Shiro’s hand, sparking purple rivulets up his arm from his fingers.

“What—um…”  Shiro’s breath catches in his throat, but Matt tries not to waver as he presses Shiro’s palm to his chest.  Determined, Matt holds Shiro’s gaze, lips parted like he’s about to speak, but then he just darts his tongue over them and clenches his jaw.  

They’re both silent for a dozen heartbeats—Shiro counts them under his fingertips.

Then Matt laughs—more of a dry sound, a scoff Shiro’s learning Matt does when he’s nervous.  “You look terrified,” he states.  Swallowing, Matt steels himself with a deep breath.  The motion sends electricity through Shiro’s palm.  “Since the Amaria thing started, you can’t look at me without this, like, total face of terror.  And I get it, it’s weird.  All of this?  This is freaking me out too.”

He tries to laugh again, but his façade falters, and it’s the first time he’s shown such unrestrained vulnerability.  Yet his eyes remain fierce, and Shiro finds he can’t look away anymore.

Even through the fabric of his shirt, Matt’s chest feels hot.  “But I don’t want _this_ to be the weird, scary part of my life,” he continues, talking faster as he grows more flustered.  “I’m tired of people looking at me like… like they have to be careful. Pidge and I, we have to sneak around and lie just to get a moment where we can feel normal.  Because when we have to be ‘the Holts,’ people are… afraid of us. They’re afraid to be around us, like it’s dangerous, and I’m tired of people being afraid of me.”

Matt regains some composure, breathing slow as he tries to even his tone, but his pulse races against Shiro’s hand.  “This doesn’t get to be weird anymore.   _This_ has to be the part of my life where I can be a normal person.  I mean, we have to figure out this bond thing anyway, right?”

Matt glances to his hand, still pressing Shiro’s firm to his chest, and he shrugs helplessly.  “We have to get used to it.  You have to get used to me because you... You have to be the one person who _doesn’t_ look at me like that.  Don’t be afraid of me.”

It’s like something clicks for Shiro, right then, though he can’t explain it at once.  Perhaps the raw desperation in Matt’s voice is what triggered something, or the pleading look in his stern eyes—a look Shiro holds without reservation.  Not once do their gazes stray from each other’s, but in his periphery Shiro can see the light in his skin grow brighter, fullest underneath where Matt’s hand touches his own.

The light begins to pulse ever so faintly, and under Shiro’s fingertips, against his palm, Matt’s heartbeat slows in time to match the rhythm of the light.  Through their touch, Matt’s relief envelops Shiro and he relishes the ease with which Matt’s next deep breath comes.  The tension in Matt’s shoulders ebbs on exhale, and when the light in Shiro’s skin dulls, Matt is calm.

“How did you do that?” Matt whispers, the corner of his mouth quirking with a bemused smile.

As if waking from a trance, Shiro blinks and pulls his hand out from underneath Matt’s, but his fingers still hover at Matt’s collar.  He shakes his head in place of words, and then he does the last thing he expected himself to do: he kisses Matt.

Shiro kisses him deliberately, deep but quick.  At once he pulls back, but his hands float beside Matt’s stunned expression.  Shiro stays close enough to see the way the violet splashes of lights in his skin reflect in Matt’s eyes, mingling with the filtered daylight to make it look like a thousand fallen stars have been trapped to burn low in amber.

Flushing, Shiro regains himself.  “Sorry,” he says, voice cracking like he hasn’t spoken in days.  “Sorry, I—I’m not—I don’t usually—”

The sentence ends with an _mmpf_ as Matt does the last thing Shiro expected him to do: he kisses Shiro back harder, for longer.  Hands pulling Shiro back close, Matt kisses him decisively, like he’s making it a point.  He breaks away with a smile.  “I think we’re gonna be doing a lot of unusual things.”

Just then the clearing falls dark under sudden cloudcast.  Shiro and Matt jerk their heads to glance upward at the sky, but they quickly relax upon seeing Irazu and Lance a feather’s breadth ahead of the other Lions coming back into view.

“We got this, Zuzu!” Lance cheers.

The Blue Lion’s fur is a striking cobalt against the desaturated sky, and it takes Shiro another moment to form some coherent thoughts and realize she’s the source of the cloud cover.  Intrigued, Shiro watches his companions racing back toward the boulder where Rajalti shuffles aside to make room for the victor.

In an exaggerated, magnificent swoop, Irazu lands with dignity next to the Black Lion.  She puffs her chest with self-satisfaction, indulging in Lance’s giddy praise.  The other three land at the base of the rock hardly a second later, good-natured banter coming from the dismounting Hearts as the Lions all catch their breath.

 _Well done, all of you,_ congratulates Rajalti.

Irazu’s eyes are breathtaking in the overcast lighting, alight with her blue magic as she preludes, _And for my final performance…_ Her dark, swallow-like wings snap open theatrically, and a ribboning wave of sea-green light bursts forth from the clouds above the clearing.

The magic aurora ripples through the sky above, and a surge of chilled air blasts across the ground below.  Proudly, Irazu gazes over the others beneath her as snow begins to fall through the air around them, settling on the frosted grass and foliage.

Euphoric, bewildered, everyone laughs as they catch the snowflakes in their palms and on their tongues.  Next to Shiro, Matt finds his sister’s gaze and she beams at both of them, wordless but looking as joyful as Shiro’s ever seen her.  She runs around after Michlo, Rover hovering low behind her to sniff the white stuff as Michlo’s form wavers and fades until the only sign of her are the giant cat prints in the dusting beneath her feet.  Rover sniffs at where Michlo’s paws pace carefully, sneezing when the icy substance sticks to his nose.

Pidge’s laugh chimes through the air. “This is snow, Rover!”  She spreads her arms wide, cheeks rosy from the cold and delight.  Rover uses his two tiny paws to make his own footprints, trilling in bewildered glee.

Kaerda joins Rajalti and Irazu atop the boulder.  The snow has hardly accumulated, but Lance and Hunk have already started trying to shove small handfuls down the other’s shirts.  Entertaining as they are, infectious as the aura is of Matt beside him, Shiro’s focus falls to Keith.

Once again he’s tucked against Branoc, who is casting enough of a heat wave to thaw a short radius around her haunches, the falling snowflakes evaporating before they reach her.  Keith laughs openly when Lance succeeds at making Hunk squeal in a way no one could have prepared for, but Shiro’s biggest delight is in seeing Keith feel so much more at ease now.

As if sharing Shiro’s very thoughts, Branoc seeks his gaze, eyes narrowed in her own pleasure.

“Oh, man, I can’t wait to tell Allura!” Lance exclaims, panting from all the exertion.  “She’s gonna be so psyched we finally did it!”

Everyone’s delight is intoxicating, but Shiro quickly sobers remembering: Allura is back at the castle, helping with her mother’s duties.  Shiro hasn’t seen the queen herself lately, but the princess has been growing ragged.  While she hasn’t divulged much about her mother’s actual condition, Shiro knows Allura has been overwhelmed.  Lance is right—this news is just what she’s been needing.

Such an empowering moment of hope is what they’ve all been needing.  So when Irazu’s snowfall stops at once with a sound like that of a thousand glass windows bursting, the shared missed heartbeats rob Shiro of his next breath.

After the explosive sound and blinding flash of smoke shrouds the entire area, everyone coughs and gasps, but the clearing is entirely silent otherwise.  Shiro tries to peer through the screen to find the others.  He knows if anyone was hurt, surely their new bond would let him know, but it’ll take him a while to rely on that alone.

“Is everyone alright?” Shiro calls out.  The smoke brings a putrid bouquet of stale green rot, like that of long-dead but wet flowers, and Shiro coughs into his sleeve.

The responding touch on his arm is Matt, wordless and currently a vague shape but Shiro can feel it is him.  The other Hearts and Lions begin to confirm close-by, and as the smoke begins to curl away, a menacing growl like distant thunder begins to fill the air in its place.  Rajalti, Shiro identifies, without needing to see or even relying on their bond.  He remembers that sound from their first encounter in the colosseum—a sound of raw animal instinct.

From the top of the boulder, a blasting gale clears the remainder of the smokescreen, and Shiro turns to see Rajalti’s wings nearly blotting out the sky.  Pulling the limbs into a defensive winch, the Black Lion’s head is low with piercing violet eyes flashing.  Her still silhouette would be enough to send anyone into a cold sweat, but it’s her fearful hate that simmers deep and hot in the pit of Shiro’s gut that encourages him to follow her gaze to the edge of the clearing.

Shiro’s heart plummets.

A troop of a dozen soldiers begins to fan out around the perimeter of the hollow.  Three of the soldiers are mounted atop their wiry, fearsome boars with matching heavy black armor emblazoned with the blood-violet crest of the Galran Empire.  Locking eyes with one of the warriors, Shiro recognizes him as the announcer from the colosseum, and an anger he’s never known before flares at the announcers soulless smirk.

Shiro efficiently remains in control, but his attention is drawn quickly away toward the two cloaked figures at each end of the lineup.  They stand taller than the soldiers with long-nosed masks breaching the hem of their embroidered hoods.  At the middle of the line steps forward a third cloaked figure.  Though their form is smaller and they bear no mask, their identity still obscured by a veil of unnatural, pure black shadow.

“Hello, Rajalti,” the lead cloaked figure rasps, their voice as dark and obscured as the shadows around their face, disguised by some grotesque illusory magic.  They speak with unsettling confidence, sounding calm if not mischievous.  “You are looking well.”

 _How dare you?_ Rajalti’s voice is low and cold in a way Shiro has never heard nor expected, but she sounds resigned as if accepting some great twist of fate.  The sound of it sends a shiver up Shiro’s spine, but the cloaked figures and their accompanying soldiers seem unfazed, even as the air around the Black Lion grows heavy in her condensing fury.  The smell of the smoke is replaced with the tang of ozone, sprawling outward from Rajalti’s perch.   _Your presence here alone invokes a wrath worthy of fallen gods._

The troop of warriors takes a joint step forward.  A horrific power emanates from the cloaked ones, a power that reeks of dark ages past and fears unquelled.  Shiro has never met these individuals himself, but he has heard many stories, many whisperings and worries, and the sour contempt pouring off each of the Lions is doubtless confirmation: before him stand the Galran Druids in the one place the Empire was never meant to find.


	6. In the Shadows, Upon the Tides

Matt doesn’t understand—didn’t Rajalti _just_ say this place couldn’t be found?

But clearly, neither the Black Lion nor anyone else knows how the intruders are here judging by the rising hackles of the Lions and stiff, guarded poses of the Hearts, Shiro and Keith reaching on instinct for the hilts of their respective sheathed blades.  Were the lot of them not so stunned, Matt guesses they’d have probably already attacked the soldiers by now.

The Galra appraise the Leonic Angels, relishing their surprise, and it leaves a foul taste in the back of Matt’s mouth.  He tries to swallow around it, but his own tension leaves even the smallest movements feeling restrained—that, and what he’s sure is Rajalti’s pressure field thing, only it’s working less in his favor this time.  Matt wonders if she’s even aware she’s doing it.

 _You seem to be a bit understaffed, witch,_ Irazu boldly taunts beside Rajalti atop the boulder, at the base of which everyone else has automatically gathered.   _Budget cuts have reached the even the Empire, I see?_

 _Shut up, Irazu,_ hisses Branoc.  Matt realizes he’s not only sweating from nerves—the Red Lion pours waves of angry heat from her fur, enough that the air shimmers and distorts as if in the middle of the desert.  As her blazing stare remains fixed on the small army, Branoc’s very pelt starts glowing like low coals, but Keith doesn’t seem to be affected by the heat as he rests his free hand upon her flank.

Irazu huffs, sounding as if she’s been only minorly inconvenienced.   _I just find it a bit over-zealous for them to arrive with so few fighters to seize the likes of us._

 _How_ did _they arrive?_ Michlo whimpers as Rover tries to bury himself in her puffing fur and feathers.  Pidge puts on a brave front, but Matt recognizes a rare glimpse of uncertainty in her face.  Instinctive, he braces a hand on her shoulder, but he’s regretfully aware that he’s the least powerful one here.

Branoc snarls, claws peeking out to graze the earth.   _All that matters is how they leave, and that is going to be in pieces!_

“Easy, Red,” Keith soothes, but his wary eyes never stray from the Galra either.

 _Take your men and leave, Haggar,_ Rajalti warns, stoic and sure.   _Before you never again have the chance._

Matt’s heart skips, and he thinks to himself, _Haggar?  The same Druid witch from all those years ago?  How can she still be alive?_

“Now, where was that fighting spirit when I needed it before?” the witch says casually.  “Your new Lionheart seems to be doing you wonders.”

She carries herself with dignity, as if she’s already won.  Matt can’t even say with certainty what’s going on, but Haggar’s arrogance definitely rubs him the wrong way.  He just knows there is going to be some sort of fight, and he longs for his wooden staff back in the glade of his own kingdom.

Shiro takes a diplomatic step forward, but his guard is still raised.  “What are you doing here?” he articulates coolly.

“Looking for you, of course,” says the witch.  “My men here aim to collect your bounty, but I’ve got a few other uses in mind for the rest of you.”  Haggar’s gaze—or rather, where her gaze _should_ be behind the froth of magic shadow—turns toward Keith.  Her warped tone shifts to one of bored disgust.  “Though I admit, we should have drafted _you_ when we had the chance.  It probably would have saved us a lot of trouble, having you dead in the front lines.”

For Branoc, that was enough.

The Red Lion unleashes a roar and launches herself toward the witch like literal hellfire breaking loose before anyone has a chance to stop her, but no matter Branoc’s speed, Haggar vanishes in a vortex of shade.

Undeterred, Branoc merely recalibrates to attack the nearest foot soldier.  In a wavering blur, teeth and claws flash like white-hot iron, and the Galran cries out as his armor begins to melt under her searing fury.

There’s no time to think as both sides take action.  Keith charges to his Lion’s side, serrated dagger drawn, and he blocks a sword strike from another foot soldier.  Shiro draws his own blade to follow suit.

One of the boarmen spurs his mount’s sharp tusks toward the base of the boulder.  Matt freezes, locking eyes with the beast, but before he can react, a bronze blur barrels into the attackers from up above.  The ground shakes upon impact, and both rider and mount are sent toppling backward, stunned.  

Matt identifies Kaerda, but her pelt and claws have taken on a luster of liquid gold, as if her entire body has transformed into a living statue.  Matt would love to take more time to appreciate the metallic movements, but Pidge tackles him out of the way with a “Look out!” as a black-magenta ball from a Druid attack nearly singes the top of his head.

The magic explodes against the boulder, and in the lingering fog, Matt and Pidge are lifted into the air just above the ground by an unseen force.  Matt starts to panic, thinking it’s another evil magic assault, but when they’re set safely toward the edge of the clearing, Pidge breathes, “Thanks, girl,” and Matt can only assume Michlo invisibly sneaks back to join her sisters in the uproar.

“We can’t just do nothing!” Matt hisses, hardly able to keep track of the wild movements between the battling sides.  His breathing is rapid, heart threatening to burst from his chest as he scans the clearing for something—anything—he can do to help.

“They broke the barrier,” Pidge says, as if trying to work through the situation out loud.  “I don’t get it, how—”

“Hunk!” Lance shouts, drawing the Holts’ attention to the three men chasing the Blue and Yellow Hearts.  Hunk trips, Lance stumbling to a stop to turn back, but just before the soldiers are close enough to strike, Irazu dives deep and stands above Hunk curled up on the ground.

The Blue Lion rears her head, and the following roar could hardly be called as much; it’s more like a screeching bark, grating, fierce, and powerful enough to send the charging men backward from the soundwaves alone.  Matt’s sure they’ve all got burst eardrums, but Lance and Hunk seem only shaken from nerves as Irazu gently grabs Hunk’s vest in her teeth, righting him before leaping after the assailants.

“I don’t know how to fight, I’m not a fighter!” Hunk panickedly babbles as Matt and Pidge cross the clearing to join him and Lance.  With surprising aptitude, the Altean boy climbs to the top of the boulder—Rajalti is nowhere to be found, Matt only now realizes, but his attention quickly sets upon Lance drawing the instrument he’s had fastened to his shoulder sash.  It’s the same stringed lyre-type instrument he’d been playing in the town square the first day Matt saw him, but with nimble twists of the wrist, the instrument extends, the strings glowing faintly as if bathed in moonlight while Lance draws them back, the bow meant to play the strings now transformed into an ornate bolt.

“Where is she?” he’s muttering to himself, focus and trained structure keeping his posture steady.  Matt, Pidge, and Hunk all stare a bit taken aback, but Matt at once feels foolish—of course Lance would have some sort of weapons training if he’s one of Princess Allura’s personal bodyguards.

“There!” Pidge shouts, peering out from the side of the boulder.  After hardly a moment’s delay, Lance’s bolt fires like a shooting star across the clearing, and Matt tracks its course toward Keith who parries one of the foot soldiers.  Behind him, one of the Druids builds another shadow bomb attack, but the moonbolt blasts through their cloak, the shadowy figure dissolving like mist over a lake.

His ally disintegrated, Keith’s opponent’s guard drops, and Keith butts the hilt of his dagger between the soldier’s eyes, knocking him unconscious.  The Red Heart glances back, only now allowing himself surprise at seeing Lance perched high, already knocking back another mysterious magic bolt.  Keith nods in thanks, then redirects his attention to helping cover Branoc’s back as she pins another soldier with her forgery-like claws.

Another shattering screech from Irazu causes Matt to jolt, and he watches two more soldiers launch backward right toward Kaerda.  The Yellow Lion, pelt still rippling like metal, roars ferociously, and she hooks her bronze claws into the lip of the fissure her boulder had cracked earlier, and Kaerda does nothing less then pull the earth apart.  The Galran soldiers shout as they plummet into the maw of the land, but Kaerda releases her grip to stomp her paws and gust her wings, returning the fissure to nothing but a crack once more, swallowing the soldiers whole.

Matt gulps, impressed and admittedly a bit intimidated by the unbridled power of the Lions.   _Holy shit._

“If you can’t fight, you gotta get outta here,” Lance shouts to the group of three behind him, firing another bolt into the fray.

Matt looks to Pidge, who looks to Hunk with a regretful nod, but only after a single step does a boarman comes thundering across the clearing, the beast blasting right through the boulder and shattering it into little more than gravel and dust.  Hunk yanks Pidge out of the way, Matt narrowly dodging to the other side out of the massive swine’s path.

The boarman turns his steed with an agility that could have only been acquired with chronic intensive training.  They just so happen to turn in Matt’s direction, and the rider sneers with malevolent glee as his mount charges with indiscriminate anger glowing in its beady eyes.

Matt’s unable to look away, the senselessness making it hard for him to be rational on his feet.  He’s only able to back up a few paces before throwing his arms up as if they would provide any sort of defense.  He can’t even face death in the face, squeezing his eyes shut.  But death never comes.

Matt peers out from his crossed arms to see the boar and its rider being dangled in the air by massive, thick tendrils of roots and vines and weeds.  The greenery writhes and constricts the Galra, his pig squealing as its legs flail helplessly where they poke out from the net of nature.  Right before Matt materializes Michlo, her fur wavering back into visibility as she lets loose a growl that sounds far too deep and fearsome for her size and personality.  With a roar, the Green Lion commands her plants to whip the boar and its mount hard enough for them to topple the few thin trees they crash into, and then they each lie still.

Michlo’s tendrils withdraw back into the earth with hardly a trace, and she exchanges a glace with first Matt then Pidge with a gesture of assent before cloaking herself once more.

 _Where is Rajalti?_ Matt thinks over the din of the scuff and the pounding in his ears.  Frantic, his eyes search the clearing for the Black Lion, but despite being the largest, she’s the only one Matt can’t find.

The third boarman catches Matt’s eye, sparring adeptly with Shiro from atop his mount.  Matt’s heart skips, thinking there’s no way Shiro could outmatch the rider and his steed, but the heat in both their expressions, visible even at this distance, strikes Matt as personal, and at once he’s assured Shiro would never let this enemy invade his home and win.  Matt allows himself the spark of admiration such a thought draws, but he’s racing back to his sister and Hunk before he gets too distracted.

Miraculously, but in a very Pidge-like way, his sister has already constructed a primitive looking slingshot device from the littered remnants of Michlo’s plant attack.  Hunk gathers the fragments of Kaerda’s shattered boulder, and together they fire projectiles underneath Lance, who at some point mounted his Lion and continues firing moonbolts from the air.

With another quick scan over the clearing, Matt takes what feels like his first breath in days.   _We’re winning._

“Show yourself!” Lance shouts as Irazu circles low over the remaining fighters.  He’s calling for Haggar, Matt concludes once he realizes the leader of the Druids is nowhere to be seen.  Lance is met instead with the remaining Druid who materializes in the air just in front of Irazu.  The Blue Lion lets out a startled yowl, but before either she or her Heart have time to react, the Druid thrusts its palms outward and casts a spell of black lightning.

But like black lightning herself, Rajalti appears at once from the shadows underneath Irazu as if she’s been melted within the darkness all along.  In less than a second, the Black Lion catches the Druid in her enormous jaws, causing their attack to miss its mark.  Irazu recovers gracefully from her moment of shock, gliding to a landing below just as Rajalti’s shape flashes and thunders.  The air in the clearing grows dangerously thick, and Matt fears he can’t catch his breath, but with a violet blast and a _pop_ in Matt’s ears, the Black Lion disappears to what Matt can only assume is a shadowy ether in which she plans to abandon the Druid.

 _She can travel through shadows like portals_ , Matt surmises with absent awe.  _Is that where she’s been fighting Haggar?_

“You’ve lost!” Matt hears Shiro call behind him.  Matt whirls and sees him holding his falchion to the throat of the felled boarmen he’d been fighting.  “Take what’s left of your men back home, Sendak.”

Recognizing the name of one of Zarkon’s commanders, Matt once again ponders how both he and the witch Haggar have stayed alive, especially after their previous Emperor’s demise.  Matt wonders not for long, however, noticing with some surprise that the clearing has fallen quiet aside from everyone’s panting and the pulse thundering in his ears.  All but three of the Galran soldiers, including Commander Sendak, have been either killed or knocked out, as far as Matt can tell, and the remainder of the army has been pinned and lies threatened at the mercy of Shiro and Keith’s blades and Lance’s bow.

Sendak chortles underneath Shiro’s sword, blood dribbling from his lip but seeming otherwise less damaged than Matt perhaps shamefully would have hoped.  “You still can’t bring yourself to finish it, eh, Champion?” the commander rasps with glowering confidence despite his ragged breaths and vulnerable position.

But Matt suddenly sees why.  Shiro’s face is lined with hesitation—no, fear? Matt ponders bewilderedly, watching the way Shiro’s chest rises and falls with more than exertion.

“Shiro,” Keith says without moving his own blade from the throat of another soldier.  He says it almost like a warning, and he sounds as if he means to say more, but Keith’s jaw clenches as he tries to draw Shiro’s gaze.

Shiro doesn’t look up from Sendak, but even from several yards away Matt can see him make the effort to swallow, and he swears Shiro starts to shake.

“I’ll do it,” Lance grunts with unexpected venom, his hate for the Empire leaking into every ounce of his posture, yet he impressively controls any impulse to strike a fatal blow for his own hostage as if waiting for an official order.

Sendak laughs, a maniacal sound that sends a shiver up Matt’s spine, but the sound is cut off as the pressure in the clearing swells again, and with another thundered sound, Rajalti steps out of the shade from the perimeter of the treeline.  Matt doesn’t hear her speak, but there’s an almost visible exchange in the air between the Black Lion and her Heart.  Shiro seems to relax, albeit gravely, and he lifts the sword from Sendak’s throat.

 _You are letting them go?_ Branoc growls from Keith’s opposite side.  Her flanks heave, not glowing as they were in battle, but her eyes still flash with anger as she regards Rajalti and Shiro.

Rajalti holds Branoc’s stare without reservation, and again a private communication must pass, for the Red Lion’s ears twitch and she heaves a resigned sigh.

It feels like it takes a painfully long amount of time for Sendak and his two soldiers to right themselves.  Matt only now notices Sendak’s boar underneath Kaerda and Irazu as they reluctantly slink off to let the beast back to its feet as well.

“What about Haggar?” Lance exclaims, still seething.  “She couldn’t even have the guts to fight in her own battle?”

Lance is right, Matt thinks.  She vanished after Branoc’s initial strike, and it seems she’s been gone ever since.  But then, Rajalti...

“The Black Lion may walk the shadows, but they are at _my_ command.”  The witch’s voice floats through the air, coming from everywhere and nowhere, but still she’s nowhere to be seen.

 _Even I still chose to fight while invisible,_ Michlo mumbles, looking exhausted upon her haunches as Pidge—thankfully unharmed, Matt notes with relief—strokes her pelt.  Poor little Rover trembles inside Pidge’s shirt.

The Galrans mount the boar, unerringly proud despite their defeat.  Sendak grins, responding to Lance but still holding Shiro’s gaze.  Shiro straightens his posture, turning to still face Sendak, inadvertently revealing to Matt the darkening patch of fabric in his side.

“Shiro, you’re hurt—” Matt says before he can think better of it, but he’s cut off as he moves to take a step forward by a sudden invisible grip so tight around his throat that he claws at himself to break free.

“Matt!” Pidge shrieks somewhere off to his side, but all he can see is Shiro whipping around to face him.  Matt can’t move, can hardly breathe, and panic begins to swell in his chest as the witch’s voice is now grazing against his ear, her touch around his neck cold as death.

“You can’t save everyone, Shirogane,” Haggar crows, low and menacing behind Matt.  “Best you learn to kill one way or another.”

Pidge screams in defiance, but Matt guesses Hunk has her restrained.  Haggar’s grip around Matt’s neck loosens, but he only has a second to take in the sight of Shiro charging forward before black smoke enshrouds him, coiling and laughing like nightmarish serpents.  Visions of dying stars fill his head, and galing breaths of moaning winds and whispers leave his limbs cold and weak.  Underneath Matt the ground falls away, and then everything turns quiet and dark.

 

* * *

 

The Altean castle, an elaborate and impressive structure whose architecture and technology transcend those found elsewhere in Arus, stands upon the highest easternmost seaside cliff within the peninsula that makes up about half of the kingdom’s territory.  This particular cliffside is rich in Balmeran crystal, a substance that has symbiotically existed to enhance and thrive alongside the Alteans as well as the Balmerans whose ancestors were the original dominant inhabitants of the Altean lands.

The Balmerans have always nurtured these crystals, being able to communicate with them, but long ago the Alteans, under the rule of explorer and alchemist King Cosra, discovered they were able to unlock further potential of the crystals’ magic to use them as a power source that would help both peoples take significant forward technological strides.

A sheltered, ground-dwelling people—at first intimidated by the seafaring Alteans—the Balmerans had initially hesitated in allowing the harvest of their crystals, but Cosra was able to explain that the crystals were almost too healthy in that some needed to be harvested in order to promote further growth and health, much like pruning roses.  With patience and diplomacy, King Cosra was able to perform both small and grand demonstrations that ultimately proved he and the Balmerans could help each other by sharing the crystals with respect to the other’s needs and preferences.

Convinced and even enthusiastic about what these developments entailed for their own people, the Balmerans agreed to help the Alteans erect their castle upon this particular cliff, for this cliff is the first to be embraced by both morning light and high tide and the last to be left by low tide—such a placement encouraged the divine favor of the tidal gods, according to the Alteans’ oracles.

So, with heartfelt consideration to the Balmerans’ ways with the crystals, the Alteans began designing and constructing their castle from the ground up—starting below the ground, even, for Cosra’s first initiative was to ensure the Balmerans aiding him were provided as much comfort and convenience as possible in their endeavors, so the Altean King personally helped carve out and furnish underground barracks for the Balmerans right underneath the castle.

The Balmeran contractors were allowed to bring whatever comforts from their homes they needed as well as request any further accommodations from the Alteans—though they didn’t ask for much.  They were happy to have beds and the light and aura of the crystals embedded in and supporting the rich, earthy walls around them.

Years later, long after the construction of the castle and the establishment of the Alteans’ civilization in coalescence with the Balmerans, the barracks had become more of a bunker, complete with emergency provisions for those in and around the castle when inevitable sea storms arose along the coast.  The cliff was high enough to prevent most potential devastating damage, but the winds could often be enough for citizens to seek shelter underground.

The underground shelter then proceeded to expand, extending further inward from the bunker to create an adjacent dungeon to be used once the Galran Empire began its own expansion.  Cosra and then his successor Alfor proceeded to use the dungeon for captured spies or invaders, but upon Alfor’s marriage to Queen Alís and the birth of their daughter Allura, he’d decided to move the prisons far from his own home and isolate the captives.  The dungeon then turned into a laboratory for his alchemical studies but in the thick of the war, it was used less and less until it was merely a storage facility.  

The War of Lions fell calm, of course—if still tense—upon Zarkon’s death at Lotor’s hand, and it’s been as if even the sea is holding its breath in this peculiar time of stagnation, for the bunkers too have hardly seen animate life outside the occasional pulse of crystals when the castle taps into their power.

It is within this exact underground bunker, carved and expanded large enough so that both the Lions and Hearts of the Leonic Angels can fit comfortably—so long as they sit reasonably still—along with Princess Allura and Matt, the latter still lying unconscious on one of the makeshift cots as Shiro accompanies the former as she rummages the adjacent storage wing for some unspecified device or another, muttering distractedly to herself as if forgetting Shiro is nearby, waiting—desperate, in fact—to be of any sort of use.  Anything to keep his hands and mind busy.

“You’re sure everything’s alright?” Shiro says, the reverberations of his own voice nearly startling him after an extended period lacking in dialogue.

“Yes!” Allura exclaims, triumphantly bolting upright from one of the dilapidated shelving units at the farthest side of the room.  Shiro can’t tell what she’s found, but she allows herself a smile directed toward her palm before sympathetically seeking his curious, weary stare.

“I’m sure he’ll be just fine,” she assures him as she crosses the floor back toward Shiro, brushing the dust off her trousers.  “Of course, we can’t know for sure until he can vouch for himself, but I was unable to detect any active malevolent magic.  I think it was just Haggar’s way of trying to scare you, but I can cast him with another deep healing spell just to stay on the safe side.”

“I meant _you,_ Allura,” Shiro corrects gently with a brush of her arm as she tries to walk past him.  “Are you okay?”

The Princess stops in her tracks, not turning back around to face Shiro but her shoulders stiffen as she inhales with deliberation.  Only then does she toss an earnestly ragged but fierce gaze over her shoulder.  “I have to be,” she breathes, almost resentfully.  She holds Shiro’s stare a moment longer, the weight of it palpably pressing upon him before she turns back to enter the passage between rooms.

Back in the cot space, Hunk, Keith, and Lance are all bickering half-heartedly about some irrelevant dispute or another, their words soft and indistinct but still bouncing off the crystalline walls around them.  As Lance sees Allura emerging into the turquoise light cast by both crystal and sea-fire lamp, he leaves his conversation at once and dashes to her side.  

While the underground space is for the most part vast, it’s filled up easily with the Lions all curled about the center of the bunker room.  Branoc’s tail twitches with irritation as she stares at nothing in particular.  Irazu sprawls on her side, eyes determinedly closed though she remains awake.  Kaerda anxiously laps at Michlo’s fur as the Green Lion’s head droops with exhaustion, yet she refuses to take her attention off Pidge at Matt’s bedside.

Hunk shuffles his feet uncomfortably, looking around between all the others as if waiting to be told what to do.  Leaving his side, Keith catches Shiro’s eye, and even in the dimness Shiro can’t mistake a pained look on his brother’s face as he stops short before him, speaking low enough to not be overheard even in the echoing cavern.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Keith mutters, somewhere between a reprimand and fretful concern.  “This isn’t the colosseum anymore, Shiro.  Letting them live could cost us everything.”

Shiro blinks, and Sendak’s sneering glare flashes behind his eyes.  A jeering crowd, a bloodied sword.  Haggar’s shrouded voice echoing in his mind as if within the very halls of the chamber.  He exhales slowly.  “It’s more complicated than that.”

“I don’t see how.  They’d kill us in a second.  Look what they’ve already done—to Altea, to you, to me.”

“I know, Keith, I just—It’s about more than life and death.”

Frustrated, Keith crosses his arms as if it helps physically restrain his voice even further as he presses Shiro, practically reading his thoughts. “It wasn’t your fault that guy died.  Sendak did that.   _You’re_ not the monster.  But mercy isn’t exactly their language.”

Shaking his head, not wanting to have this discussion right now, Shiro seeks Rajalti’s gaze at the farther side of the room.  Nearly undetectable in the shadows, she lowers her head despairingly, her silent aura speaking louder than the audible chatter from the others.  

“We can talk about it later,” he sighs, starting to cross the floor to sit by his Lion when Pidge’s uncannily relaxed voice catches him off-guard.

“We might even beat our record this time,” she says, and Shiro begins to make his way toward her and Rover on either side of Matt’s cot.  She’s calmed down drastically since seeing her brother collapse from a veil of ghostly shade, Allura effectively convincing her he’s going to be alright upon her magical examination.

Shiro gingerly sits at the foot of the bed, and seeing Matt lie so still and inanimate fills him with another wave of dismay, but he grows perplexed as he watches Pidge and Rover pile on tiny fragments of loosened crystal and stone in careful columns all over Matt’s sleeping frame.

“What are you doing?” Shiro asks with only mild concern.

As if only now noticing him, Pidge looks up from her task.  “It’s just a game Rover and I do when Matt’s oversleeping.  We try to stack as many nearby tiny objects on him as possible until he wakes up.”

Rover chirps, verifying, and Shiro furrows his brow.  “He… sleeps like this often?”

“Well, he’s a bit of a night owl,” she explains with a breathy laugh.  “He’s always had this thing with watching the stars, but like— _really_ watching them.  I mean, he stays up late to see how fast and how far they move across the sky, from night to night, season to season.  He’s obsessed, taking notes and making charts and stuff.  I’m not actually sure why he does it; I guess I never thought to ask because he’s my brother and brothers are supposed to do dumb things, right?”

Shiro smiles, nodding thoughtfully as she and Rover continue taking turns adding to the pile.  The way she carries on about Matt is endearing, talking as if it didn’t matter who she was telling, just that she wanted to talk about him.  “All I know is he really cares about it.  He takes it really seriously but still lets it make him happy, you know?

“So, a couple years ago I made him a telescope from scratch.  It took me months to find all the right materials and I had Hunk take it to his dad to engrave it and everything.  I gave it to him for his birthday, and now he stays up even later, more often because he can get even better views of the stars with it, so on one hand I’m like, ‘Way to go, me, you genius,’ but other times I’m like, ‘Is this doing more harm than good?’ because, like, we have daytime responsibilities, you know?  But…”

Her movements falter for a second until she finds what must be the right kind of stone she was looking for, but she resumes more slowly, distracted as she ponders aloud, “I dunno, I think that’s my proudest accomplishment so far is making that telescope.  He’s never looked so excited in his life.”  Then, with a sidelong glance full of mischief, she adds, “Until you came along, anyway.  But don’t tell him I said that.”

Shiro blinks at her, heart belatedly stuttering, and he tucks his head with a blush in spite of himself.  He looks back to Matt’s face, his eyes darting behind their lids as if he’d simply fallen asleep.  Shiro wonders what sort of ghastly nightmares Haggar’s magic would have him wrought with, but the longer Shiro watches Matt, a muffled sort of elation begins to tickle in his throat and ears, and with a tingle in his chest and hands Shiro notices the starry purple glow and smiles.

“I think he’s having a good dream,” Shiro muses.

Just then, as if feeling their eyes upon him, Matt begins to stir, disturbing the abstract monument of stone and crystal laid upon his torso, but Pidge is too relieved to mourn her handiwork.  Michlo perks up nearby at her Heart’s delight, and Rover chucks his own joy, crawling onto Matt’s shoulders.  Pidge tosses her arms around him in an embrace before he’s barely righted himself, and he returns the gesture, albeit with a wince.

“Hi,” Shiro smiles, plenty relieved himself.

“Hi.”  Matt’s voice is a croak, but he coughs once and it seems to clear up.  “Where are we?”

“Altea, beneath the castle.  How are you feeling?”

Matt cocks a playful brow.  “You don’t know?” he teases.

“You’re awake!”  Upon hearing the gentle commotion, Allura’s quickly pacing back to Matt’s side, tilting his face up to examine him closely.  “Here, let me see.”  She peers intensely into his widening eyes before closing her own and running her thumbs over his cheekbones.  Her skin takes on a curious glow that only seems noticeable if one doesn’t look at her directly.

“I’m glad you can see,” Matt mutters with bleary eyes, “because I’m having some trouble.”

“Oh, dammit, your glasses!” Hunk curses.  “I must have lost them on our way here.”

Pidge looks to her brother with a grin.  “He carried you very chivalrously.”

“I had help,” Hunk says with a shy glance to Kaerda, the Yellow Lion purring.

“Oh, that’s hardly a problem,” Allura says with a soft laugh.  “Here, look in my eyes?”

Matt does as he’s told, and Allura’s fingertips move to brace Matt’s temples.  They glow pink and white as she assumes deep focus, drawing from whatever is her source of power so her aura glows more conspicuously.  Pink magic pulses dart like circuitry between her fingers across Matt’s face, and with a breath she redirects the waves to cross Matt’s entire frame, likely continuing her overall examination.

“What about you?” Matt asks Shiro with sudden concern, voice hushed like he’s afraid to disturb Allura’s work.

Instinctive, Shiro’s hand reaches for his side, the gash now bandaged beneath his clean shirt.  “Allura knows what she’s doing,” he responds encouragingly.

With a gentle static-sounding pop, Allura draws back, righting her posture.  “I still can’t detect any lingering effects, no traces of anything dangerous.  I think it was just an extravagant sleeping spell.”  She speaks definitively, ages of diplomacy keeping her tone even, but her scrutinous expression betrays she’s more worried about not finding anything than if she had.

Matt blinks away the stray pink particles around his eyes.  “Holy gods, you fixed my eyes.  Why did no one tell me this was an option from the beginning?”

“Well, if we were to advertise such remedies we’d never get a day’s rest dealing with thousands of minor ailments.”  Allura shakes her head dismissively.  “No blinding headaches?  No strange shadows in the room?”

“Just Rajalti,” Matt says with a nod in the Black Lion’s direction.  She snorts good-naturedly despite her sorrowful mood.

“No damning whispers or flashing lights calling you into the dark?”

Matt purses his lips, easily shaking his head.  “I think I’m good, Doc.”  Something visibly occurs to him, and Matt’s expression falls.  “Where did Haggar—the Galra, how did they—I thought Alís’s barrier—”

 _They destroyed the barrier._  

Rajalti’s voice echoes no more than normal, but it sounds louder in the quiet of the underground, the slosh of the ocean the only sound, and even that is a faint whisper.  The Black Lion doesn’t bother rising to her feet, but her violet eyes easily cross the dimness of the chamber, meeting Matt’s on the cot.

Allura’s shoulders tense as she measures her breath, and Matt can’t pick one person to look at, not understanding.

The discussion’s already been had between Shiro and the others, but his heart clenches again as Allura heavily explains for the second time.  “The barrier shielding the hollow in the forest was connected to my mother’s very life force—it was the only way she could maintain its strength.  But the longer she upheld the barrier, the more it drained her until eventually she began to fall ill.  In turn, the barrier weakened, and the Galra were able to seek and destroy what remained of it—thus destroying my mother as well.”

Allura only allows her head to drop ever so slightly.  Lance hovers beside his princess in a way Shiro is sure she’d prefer him not to, but no one can blame him for his concern.  He rests a helpless hand on her shoulder, his  visage bearing the weight of both their grief.

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” Matt offers in uncertainty, taken aback.

“It was me, wasn’t it?” Keith ventures, sounding small.  “Because I’m Galra.  They… found us through me?  I mean, Haggar said—”

 _Enough of that, Heart,_ Branoc snaps from her spot closest to the group.   _I will not allow you to take blame for such foul things._  She speaks coarsely, but it’s her own proof of affection.

 _No, Keith, it was not at all your fault,_ Rajalti assures accordingly.   _I believe it was the powerful surge of magic from our pride bond that likely seeped through the already weakened barrier, allowing just enough for the Druids to track us down._

Shiro’s heart is lead in his chest from the feeling of loss from each of the Lions.  Alís was not a Heart herself, but she was the prior Black Heart’s beloved and the guardian of the Lions upon Alfor’s passing along with their daughter.

Her death is not taken lightly by any of them, but Rajalti is particularly mournful, head low and eyes pensively closed. _If we are to place any blame, it should be upon me.  The moment Alís forged the barrier, I knew how it could drain her, and yet I waited far too long before deciding us to find the new Lionhearts.  By then, she had already lost irreparable strength.  I spent my time grieving Alfor that perhaps I doomed Alís as well._

“Stop that,” Allura scolds, voice low yet brittle, crossing the chamber floor to stand before the Black Lion.  “You cannot blame yourself for hurting, Rajalti.  You lost your Heart.  And I should know how it hurt, for I lost my father.”  The princess sighs, a stubborn sound.  “If you want to play such a blame game, then place it on me, on my mother, for we both knew as well what her protection spell could cost.  Perhaps we should have chased you out of the nest ourselves, but maybe we refrained because we too dwelled in mourning my father, keeping you close because you are what we had left of him.”

 _Allura…_ Rajalti croons sadly.

The princess composes herself, turning halfway to address everyone.  “But it doesn’t matter.  There is nothing to gain by pointing fingers.  All that matters is where we are to go from here.  As heir, I can go no further than my chambers upstairs where I will speak with Coran, Romelle, and the other courtiers so we may plan my mother’s funeral, her wake, and my coronation.  But as for the rest of you…”

From her pocket, Allura draws whatever it was she sought earlier in the storage chamber as she completes her about face toward the Lionhearts.  In her hand rests some sort of disc, the details of it still unclear in the dimness of the underground.  With focus and a steady twist of the wrist, her fingertips glow pink once more, and she taps the device in her palm.  From it beams a sea-green pin of light that stretches upward and fans outward until the princess is enveloped in a bubble of ethereal iridescence.  Magic illustrations dart and spark around her like living glyphs.  Shiro absorbs the imagery in astonishment, registering grid lines and some familiar patterns of constellations orbiting landmarks that are haloed by various cosmic symbols, anecdotes Shiro can’t translate, but he recognizes many runes of the Altean language.

“It’s a map,” Matt sighs, awestruck.

Allura nods, then with regal finality she inclines her head.  “You all will be going to Oriande.”

While everyone else takes a silent moment to process, Hunk is already sputtering, “Wait, wait, _Oriande?_  Like _the_ Oriande?  ‘Mirage City’ Oriande?  The Oriande only accessible to _chosen Altean alchemists_ Oriande?   _That_ Oriande?”

“Yes,” Allura confirms.  “However, it’s a misconception that only Altean alchemists may enter.  It is a realm open to anyone of pure heart who seeks greater knowledge.  As you are the Leonic Angels, with Amaria coursing through your very beings, you should have no trouble passing through its gates.”  She grimaces weakly, adding more to herself, “Although, I cannot with any confidence say the same for the journey there.  It will be dangerous, especially now that the Galra know the pride has been reformed.”

“What do we have to go to Oriande _for_ exactly?” inquires Pidge.

Allura swipes her palm over the strange mapstone once more and the imagery disappears.  “I assure you I will explain everything in more detail soon, but I think for now it’s best we get you and your brother back home for the night, Pidge.  When I’ve made my own arrangements, I’ll send a courier with a summons for you and we’ll discuss everything in full then.”

Matt jolts at Shiro’s side.  “Wait, how long have I been out?”

“A few hours,” Hunk provides with the best intentions.  “Probably dark out by now.”

Matt and Pidge exchange a pallid glance.  “Aw, crap, Mom and Dad are gonna be _pissed._ ”


	7. Subtle Magnetism

Sam and Colleen Holt aren’t exactly the most ruthless parents, but they _are_ worriers.  And worriers tend to lash out in anger when they’re really worried—especially when the worriers are King and Queen, and especially when their children have missed a curfew imposed largely for their own safety, regardless of whether or not it’s because they were in a neighboring kingdom being assigned epic, world-changing responsibilities as part of an age-old group of man and mystical lion.

As Allura guides everyone back to the surface, Matt admits it might be foolish the fearful regard he has of his parents despite them being, in fact, very kind and understanding people.  But he considers it’s less the fear of their anger than the fear of his own guilt for worrying them.  To be fair to Sam and Colleen, Matt _had_ been cast into a bizarre sleep state by the most powerful dark witch in Arus, but he decides he’ll leave that part out.  What they don’t know won’t hurt them.

Hunk was right—dusk has fallen over Arus.  Inky swaths of evening smear the horizon and clad the first stars as the group emerges from a series of labyrinthine side passages leading about a hundred feet away from the Altean castle’s exterior.  A rind of moon teases the lapping waves that blow sea breezes over the cliffside to kiss Matt’s cheeks, the splashing song of low tide caressing the shore somewhere below, but there’s no time for flirting with the night.  Although, the fresh air does do a bit to revive him, for he’s been a little woozy since reawakening.  This is, Matt considers with great exhaustion, perhaps the longest day of his entire life, and it’s not even over.

“How are we even gonna explain this to them?” Matt groans as Rajalti crouches beside Kaerda and Michlo.  Shiro and Hunk mount their Lions respectively, Rover tucked into Pidge’s shirt as she climbs atop hers.  Matt joins Shiro last, his sympathy rolling off him in waves Matt doesn’t need a magic bond to catch.

“Same as we explained it to you,” Pidge resolves simply, almost optimistically, but Matt scowls to himself.  Of course _she_ hardly has need to worry—whatever their parents’ reactions, as big brother and eldest heir, _he’s_ going to get the brunt of it.

“Hunk, how are you gonna explain it to _your_ family?” Matt asks.

“Me?  Well, I’m not a prince, so… I guess it should be pretty straightforward.  Secrets aren’t a big thing in my family, so they’ll understand how important it was I kept this all quiet until now.”  Hunk shrugs.  “Shay will probably worry the most, tell me not to go.  But she’ll understand I have a responsibility.”

Pidge laughs.  “You’ll tell her you’re a Lionheart before you tell her how you feel.”

Hunk blushes, but explains without further acknowledging Pidge.  “The Galra destroyed her village in their last raid.  Her family decided to relocate in the opposite direction of everyone else, thinking it’d be safer because the Empire would strike denser populations first.  If I’m even a minute late when she’s expecting me, she gets scared I was caught in an ambush or something.”  Tilting his head, Hunk dares a hopeful smile.  “But, if we can do this, she won’t have to worry about that anymore right?”

Allura smiles kindly at Hunk, but Lance, voice flat with grief and fatigue, points out, “You _were_ in an ambush, though.”  

Deflated, Hunk scrunches his face as if running a scenario in his head.  “Maybe I’ll leave that part out for now.”

Matt grunts.   _So much for seeking encouragement._  “Maybe we don’t have to tell our parents anything,” he says to Pidge.  “We could just sneak back in and—”

“And what, Matt?”  Pidge spreads her hands, inviting elaboration.  “When we have to leave again and not come back, we give them heart attacks when they can’t figure out where we are?”

Matt prepares his counterargument, but in a split second he catches Allura’s eyes, brightest blue even in the fading light of day but sad as can be, and at once Matt checks his agitation.  While Alteans do age prodigiously slower than humans under normal circumstances, by her people’s standards, Allura would be nearly the same age as Matt.  Both parents now taken from her, the kingdom of Altea falls upon her shoulders alone, and all Matt can think about is what he might do if it were him.  If, hypothetical gods forbid, anything would happen to his parents, at least Matt would have Pidge to help share the weight of that duty.  Who does Allura have? Matt wonders.  She seems close enough with Lance, he and Irazu looking sorrowful at her side, but as far as her perspective from role as Queen, Allura’s on her own.  Matt feels his heart threaten to ache for her, but he thinks better of it watching the grace and strength with which the princess bears her burden.  It’s admirable, and she doesn’t need his pity.

All this he conveys with a brief nod to Allura, who inclines her head further in acknowledgment—some unspoken, understanding exchange only possible between people of their status.

The Lions right themselves, lifting Matt, Shiro, Hunk, and Pidge high above the others upon their backs, bracing for the speedy teleportation ride home, but Rajalti fails to stifle a grunt.

“Are you sure you’re okay to do this?” Shiro asks his Lion.  “It’s been a rough day for you—for all of us.”

“You’ve said yourself it’s a draining maneuver,” adds Hunk worriedly.

Rajalti blinks, betraying nothing further. _I promise I will get you all to your kingdom safely._

 _We can lend her our shared strength to make sure of it,_ adds Kaerda.

 _What about getting back?_ Michlo mutters as if to herself.

Trying to lift the somber tension, Matt quips to Rajalti, “Just try to get us home without dropping us in the shadow realm or something.”

 _Oh, but I rather think you might like it there,_ Rajalti quips right back.   _Awfully quiet.  No glaring sun to intrude.  You could sleep for days undisturbed._

Branoc huffs, dissatisfied.   _If anything should happen, anything at all—_

 _Enough of your doting, dear,_ Irazu interrupts.

“Please be careful,” Keith says softly, but he only looks at Shiro when he says it.

Lance laughs half-heartedly.  “Like Lion like Heart.”  Keith rolls his eyes.

Everyone’s good humor wilting, Rajalti directs her attention back to Allura.   _You will be alright?_

“I will be just fine,” the princess assures with a weak laugh.

Rajalti pauses, then purrs low, _He would be so proud of you, you know._

Allura offers a smile, small but sincere as she takes a few steps to graze her fingers along Rajalti’s jaw, resting her forehead against the Lion’s nose.  “He’d be proud of you as well.”

The two hold each other’s gazes fondly for a moment during which Matt feels he’s intruding before Rajalti, Michlo, and Kaerda turn toward the inland, and everyone nervously bids farewell for the evening.  In a running start over the stretch of open land, powerful muscles ripple beneath fur and feathers that gleam in the embrace of eventide, and the three Lions take to the sky with thunderous flaps.  As his innards plummet to the soles of his feet, Matt instinctively seals himself against Shiro’s back, careful not to aggravate the battle wound in his side.   _This’ll still take some getting used to,_ Matt thinks.

Not quite as high as during Matt’s first flight—only just this morning, he notes vaguely—but still high enough, Rajalti says, _It has been some time since I have last transported more than myself and my Heart.  Stay close, my Lions, and Lionhearts, hold on._

In wordless assent, Kaerda and Michlo expertly angle themselves to fit underneath Rajalti’s gliding wingspan just enough that they nearly graze each other’s feathers, and Rajalti’s pressure field begins to thicken and send electric prickles along Matt’s skin.  He almost misses the distress on his sister’s face before he closes his eyes in anticipation.

All Matt hears is thunder, and in his gut it feels like a sucker-punch from a man with nothing to lose.  Amidst the breath-thieving panic, Matt’s sure he can see the billions of stars passing him by behind his eyelids, and he fears he’s perhaps falling, but before he has a moment to even register the truth of what’s happening, he’s gasping for breath under the canopy of the forest glade within his own kingdom.

Matt half-dismounts, half-tumbles off Rajalti’s back.  He surely would be eating dirt were Shiro not already on the ground waiting to help steady him while Matt’s land legs take a minute to catch up.  He still fights to gulp in any volume of air, hardly able to steady himself in Shiro’s arms.  Only when he blinks the leftover stars from his eyes does Matt realize Shiro’s talking to him.

“...y...n...ld your breath.”

“What?” Matt gasps over the ringing throb in his ears.

The grass under Matt’s palms tells him he actually did fall at some point, and when Shiro’s voice becomes clearer, so does his face when Matt looks up into his eyes, cloudy with worry. _Night sky eyes,_ Matt thinks, stupid from exhaustion.

“I told you not to hold your breath,” Shiro says again, strong arms keeping Matt upright against him as he trembles— _trembles,_ embarrassingly enough, blushing even as Matt feels the tingling leave his extremities.

“Sorry,” he says, noting Pidge and Hunk gazing upon him with their own worry, unhindered by any after-effects of their own.  With flustered defiance, Matt fights to right himself, albeit still depending heavily upon Shiro’s assistance.  He swallows hard but regains the most of his senses soon enough.

“Oh, gods,” Hunk frets as Shiro hands Matt off to him, “Haggar’s magic probably did a number on him, and we almost just finished him off.”

Rover makes an inquisitive sound, but Pidge dismisses, “He’s fine,” already turning away to track Shiro’s hurried steps toward his Lion.  Matt’s gaze follows in turn only to have his heart skip in surprise at the sight of Rajalti breathing heavily on her side, Shiro kneeling up against her.

 _What did I tell you?_ she pants.   _You have arrived safe and sound._

“We shouldn’t have done this,” Shiro mutters.

 _Rajalti…?_ Michlo whimpers at Pidge’s side.

 _I am alright, Michlo,_ Rajalti assures with heavy eyes. _I need only a moment’s rest._

 _It will be more than a moment._  Lifting her broad muzzle from Rajalti’s skyward flank, Kaerda’s eyes narrow disapprovingly, but her voice remains calm.  Golden eyes take in those of each onlooker.   _I do not think she should risk a return home tonight._

 _We should not be apart from the others for long,_ Rajalti protests weakly, unmoving and thus not convincing anyone.  She’s already half-asleep.

Reluctantly, Shiro stands, shoulders sloped as if his Lion’s exhaustion ravages him just as well.  “They’ll be fine as long as you stop pushing it for the night.”

“Distance makes the heart grow fonder,” Matt offers.  “Or, in this case… _Hearts._ ”  He scowls just as he says it.   _Stop._

Pidge rolls her eyes at her brother, and Michlo lowers her head.   _You do not think Keith and Lance will tear out each other’s gizzards?_

 _Because we are at a distance does not mean we are apart,_ says Kaerda, with an honest spark of mischief in her eyes amidst the toil of preoccupied concern.   _We_ _can still keep an eye on them one way or another._

Hunk chuckles, “It’s like… You know those fighting fish?  And they’re perfectly reasonable on their own, but you put ’em in a bowl together and they just gotta _fight_ ’til one of ’em’s dead?  That’s _totally_ Keith and Lance.”

“They even come in red and blue,” Pidge adds with a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” Shiro says through a grin, “those two are way better now.”

Set at some ease, Michlo jokes along.   _Irazu will not let them do anything too rowdy, for it will risk ruddying her shiny clean coat!_

Kaerda laughs too, so low a rumble Matt first thinks it’s a growl. _Branoc is surely asleep by now.  Should they dare wake her, they will suddenly no longer be anyone’s concern._

The five of them—Rover included, a now-unconscious Rajalti excluded—indulge their amusement at their partners’ expense, and while Matt finds it entertaining as well, he can’t help feeling—justifiably so—that he’s only looking outside in on this group of characters who belong to each other in a way Matt will never be able to understand.

Why does that make him feel so… sad?

He’s just tired.  He takes a deep breath.   _None of that._ But Shiro’s looking at him a little funny as everyone quiets down, their need for rest settling back in their forms like disturbed, dense silt.

“So, you guys stay with us tonight,” Matt offers.  He finally manages to bolster his own weight, giving Hunk an appreciative glance and ignores the fact his sister is now looking at him like bugs just started flying out of his ears.  “We have a castle, you know, with spare space.  The Lions can stay here in the glade.”

“Well, actually, _I_ still gotta get home,” Hunk says, but he looks to Kaerda as if seeking her permission.  The Yellow Lion tilts her head thoughtfully, but Michlo perks up, bounding to Rajalti’s side.

 _An idea,_ she announces before leaning into the Black Lion.  Michlo’s pelt wavers, hypnotic and disorienting in the dark, and in a ripple effect Rajalti’s follows suit until both Lions have disappeared entirely.  Kaerda blinks, pressing her nose back into Rajalti’s fur, and she too vanishes under Michlo’s magic cloaking.

The Green Lion’s disembodied voice mews excitedly, _This should be enough to help protect us for the night._

Rover trills, ever amused by Michlo’s trick.  Pidge too lights up at once but just as fast falls into doubt.  “Won’t that exhaust you the same way?”

The cloak wavers again, and the three Lions reappear.   _Perhaps,_ says Michlo, less excited now.   _But have we another option?_

 _Spare your strength for now, Michlo,_ instructs Kaerda, returning to Hunk’s side.   _I will guide my dear Heart the rest of his way home, and when I return, we will reach for Branoc and Irazu to let them and the others know._

“Shiro?” Matt prompts, brushing a hand gently against his arm, scaring up a brief cloud of purple starlight.  Shiro’s hardly glanced away from his Lion, but Matt’s touch jolts him to attention.

“You really think that’s a good idea?” he asks.  “Will it be okay?”

At the same time, Pidge and Matt begin sputtering their reasons for “no” and “yes” respectively, at first targeting them to Shiro until they begin glaring at each other.  The argument is entirely incoherent until Hunk steps in, a hand on each of the siblings’ shoulders and looking to Shiro.

“Yeah, you should go.  I mean, I’d offer you the night at my place since we have far fewer rules—not hard when you’re not royalty.  But, my home’s also got way less space—literally and interpersonally.”  Hunk shrugs, nonchalant.  “Besides, you could act as a sort of interim ambassador for the Leonic Angels.  Break the ice?”

Pidge considers with a frown.  “He _would_ be able to validate the story so Mom and Dad don’t think it’s a fancy excuse.”

“ _Or,_ ” Matt alternatively suggests, “We could just sneak him in the way we always sneak out.  We wouldn’t have to tell Mom and Dad anything, at least not tonight.  I mean, it’s late, and—”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Pidge says with distaste.  “Like they’re not gonna have _triple_ the usual guards covering every inch and orifice of the entire grounds.  Why are you so set on avoiding Mom and Dad?”

“I’m not _avoiding_ them, I just think we should postpone this inevitably exhausting conversation until morning.”

“You wanna sneak back in and make them _worry_ ’til morning.”

“I don’t want _them_ to worry, but _I’m_ worried they’ll—

“You’re worried they’ll _ground_ you because you’re not actually one of the Lionhearts, so why would you be allowed to leave the castle again, let alone go to Oriande?  It’s not a game, Matt!”

Rover shrinks away from the spat, tucking behind Hunk while Shiro tries to interject.  “Okay, it’s been a long day—”

Matt doesn’t really hear him, flaring.  “I know it’s not a game!  I’m not an idiot despite your insistence on that belief.”

“What else am I supposed to believe when there’s no evidence to the contrary?” Pidge is shouting now.  “You keep doing _stupid_ things like—” she swings a wild indicative gesture toward Shiro who actually flinches, “—running off alone and trusting your entire life with strangers or—or throwing yourself into a Galra Druid’s hands!”

“I didn’t _throw_ mys—”  A thought nearly jolts Matt into silence, and he regards his sister calmly with the newfound realization: watching Haggar attack him _scared_ her—she’s lashing out because she doesn’t want to see him get hurt again.  She’s worried, like their parents surely will be, and Matt’s pretty sure she _wants_ them to make him stay home.  She doesn’t want him involved.

As if Pidge can see him realizing all this, she casts her eyes defiantly to the ground.  The way Shiro and Hunk shuffle awkwardly in the silence tells Matt their Amarian bond with Pidge provides them with the same insights.

Matt feels a chink in his heart, and he relaxes his shoulders, grimacing in sympathy as he moves to pull his sister into an embrace.  Pidge tenses in Matt’s arms at first, drawing her own arms back as if to shove her brother away, but then she slowly wraps them around his waist, and she begins to silently shake.  Hovering close but not wanting to intrude, Michlo and Rover let out small whimpers.

In another aching beat of silence, Matt looks to Hunk and Shiro, both older brothers themselves, and he scoffs in relent.  “Let’s have a little sit down with ol’ Mom and Pop.”

 

* * *

 

The stairwell to Allura’s room feels darker now, though it is lit as always by the blue-green phosphorescence of seafire lamps so indicative of her people and their magic.  Lance and Keith trail behind her in silence, their shoes clacking across the pearly stone floors.  Irazu and Branoc remain in the chambers underground for now where they should be safe until morning; in the morning, to her people, Allura will have to declare everything.  But for the evening, she wishes only to sit with those dearest to her in the castle—that number growing smaller, she wishes to hold those she has left ever closer.

Allura pauses her train of thinking, dismayed.  This castle…  It’s hers now.   _Her_ castle…  No, that just doesn’t seem right.  It _isn’t_ right; both her mother and father should be here.  This castle is _theirs._ How could she feel okay with accepting something that was stolen before it could be rightfully relinquished?

Anger kindles at the base of Allura’s gut, crawling up her spine and warming her cheeks so the pink beneath her eyes glows in her periphery.   _Haggar…_ she thinks with grave venom, in a flash of a moment wanting only vengeance.  Somewhere alone, only Allura against the witch.  In a flash of a moment, she imagines monumental blasts of power.  Allura envisions flooring the enemies of her kingdom, _for_ her kingdom.  She is tired of losing.  She is tired of hiding.  She is tired of not being enough to protect the people closest to her, let alone her entire kingdom.  And she has to keep trying, but now she must do it on her own.

Blinking away the threat of frustrated tears, Allura calms at once in the wake of her enraged moment.  She allowed herself that moment, and now she has to stay calm, in control.  Her people need her strength now more than ever.

Her mother would tell her, has told her: _Our backbone is hope.  Altea is built upon and embraced by the sea, a tumultuous thing of storms and floods, but see how beautiful it can be as well.  Remember the sunsets that kiss the water, the life its body brings, and you will remember why we are here.  So long as you remember what is yet to come, it will carry you through what seems impossible now._

But what if what’s yet to come _is_ the impossible?

Allura, Lance, and Keith reach the door to her chamber, and Romelle swings it open to greet the trio before Allura has a chance to announce herself.  Wordless, her lady-in-waiting flings her arms around Allura in an embrace so fierce it startles her only to then console her, Romelle’s brazen compassion never once hindered by Allura’s place as royalty.

“I’m so sorry, Allura, I’m so, so sorry,” Romelle sputters.  “I meant to find you earlier, but I’d been so caught up with my work—such stupid little tasks, not even important—I never even heard until—”

“It’s alright,” Allura laughs.  She returns Romelle’s embrace—albeit with a little less vigor—and adds softly, “I know you’re here.”

Allura knows there have been passing words about Romelle’s apparent lack of regard for protocol and boundaries, their casual, comfortable friendship more fitting for the school yard than a castle, but Allura has let Romelle know she’s honestly grateful for it; it makes Allura feel less isolated, less objectified.  Romelle reminds her she’s still a real person, not a pretty machine for law and magic or someone built of only tragedy.

Allura breathes in the familiar scent of Romelle’s hair, relishing the warmth of her embrace.  It’s so calming; she feels so safe, Allura doesn’t want to let go at first, but Coran regretfully clears his throat by the window, and the girls relent.

“Princess,” he urges tenderly with the weight and affection his parents always said her name.  

Allura nods, an unintentionally curt gesture.  Coran, always like a second father to Allura, looks to her with sad expectation on his face; he knows as well as she that they need to make all their arrangements as soon as possible, no matter how difficult it is to act progressively in their grief.

Keith and Lance have made their way into the room past the girls, and Allura can’t help but notice how uncomfortable Keith looks.  His visible tension gives her pause.  She’s unsure if it would be better to say something or say nothing, to suggest he leave or let him stay.  He meets her gaze, and she forces herself not to look away—his Galran blood is so clear in his dark violet eyes that it chills her, but she quickly scolds herself.  He’s not the enemy; he’s no less a victim of the Empire than she is, if only for the simple fact that his appearance is enough to discomfort the people near him.   _It’s not fair,_ Allura laments to herself.   _None of this has been fair to any of us._

But now is not the time for laments; now is the time for a plan.  Envisioning the tide in her mind like her parents had taught her, Allura syncs the rhythm of the ocean waves to the rhythm of her breath: in, and out.  One first, and then another.   _I can do this; I have to do this._

 

* * *

 

Matt expected red-faced anxious shouting—not his father’s expression to collapse with relief or his mother’s desperate embrace when a guard leads Matt, Pidge, and a nervous Shiro into the throne room where Sam and Colleen had been mapping searches and plotting courses of action.  Returning his mother’s hug, Matt refrains from rolling his eyes—they weren’t _that_ late.  But glancing to his sister and Shiro… Alright, they do look a bit of rough bunch, he’ll give them that.

Sam orders the guard to call off the extra patrols and sends them from the room so he and Colleen are alone with Matt, Pidge, and Shiro.  Sam approaches the three as if he’s ready to dole out his parental and kingly admonishments, but a curious glance to Shiro stalls him.

In her husband’s pause, Colleen assesses the torn and dirtied clothing of the three, their scuffed faces and unkempt hair.  Surely Matt acquired a few extra bags under his eyes today.  Colleen’s gaze also stops at Shiro.  “The gladiator?” she asks with recognition.

“Takashi Shirogane, Your Majesty” Shiro introduces himself, bowing belatedly.  “But I’m, uh, retired.”

“You’re a fugitive from the Empire,” Sam corrects, suspiciously glancing between the three of them, and Matt does roll his eyes this time.

“You’re a mess is what you are,” Colleen clucks.  “All of you.”

“I have half a mind to turn you in for kidnapping the Holt heirs, receive that fine bounty and pay my guards extra to ensure they can’t slip away again.”

“Dad!” Pidge shouts.  Matt genuinely cannot tell if his father’s joking.

Shiro fails to mask the flash of fear in his face as Colleen scolds, “ _Sam._  Let them speak for themselves?”

Sam sighs, looking older than he should or normally does.  He straightens his shoulders, strangely apt at maintaining a regal visage, and expectantly he prompts Matt by spreading his palms.

Suddenly, Matt’s exhaustion nearly sends him pitching forward.  He’s at a loss for words, perhaps the first time in his babbling life.

“If I may, sir—Your Majesties,” Shiro initiates mercifully.  “What do you know about the Leonic Angels?”

“Is this some sort of solicitation?” Sam asks, and Matt hears Pidge stifle a snort.

Colleen says, “The grapevine has been full of talk about the Black Lion’s return—and you escaping with it.”

“ _Her,_ ” Pidge corrects with a mutter.  Sam cocks an eyebrow at his daughter, and she straightens her posture to look up at him confidently.   _Fearless,_ Matt admires, proud.  “The Lions are girls,” she asserts, “and it’s true; they’re coming back with their Lionhearts.  Me and Shiro are part of them.”

Matt, silent and feeling strangely like he shouldn’t be here, watches the shifting patterns of his parents’ expressions as they absorb the tales Pidge and Shiro regale about the Lions suspecting a new era of detriment, setting out to find new Hearts and reforming the Leonic Angels, their protective hollow becoming exposed and attacked by the Galra, and the death of Queen Alís.

“Alís is dead?” Colleen gasps, bringing a hand to her mouth.  “Oh, poor Allura…”

“She needs us as a pride to travel to Oriande,” Pidge finishes.  “To speak to the White Lion.”

“Oriande?” Sam repeats, disbelieving.  “That quest is dangerous, and I can’t even be sure I believe it’s real.”

“It is real,” Pidge insists.  “Allura has _been_ there, remember?”

“Such is the story.  This is—”  Frustrated, Sam shakes his head.  “This is all very preposterous and sudden.  What would you gain from such a quest anyway?”

“Character development?” Pidge shrugs facetiously.

Shiro comes in before she’s reprimanded for that.  “Allura hasn’t told us her entire plan yet,” he admits.  “But she plans to send a courier very soon to summon us all when she does, and I’m positive she’ll request your presence as well now that you know your children are involved.”

“So, Shir—uh, Master Takashi is here as a sort of placeholder,” Matt adds carefully, trying not to laugh at the unfitting formality of Shiro’s name, then adds with a side glance to Shiro, “Collateral.”

“And how is it exactly _you_ got involved, Matthew?” Sam asks, an inquisitive challenge.

“I followed Pid— _Katie_ down an unfamiliar path one day when she ran on ahead of me,” Matt lies.  “I saw her meet up with Hunk and their Lions and followed them into Altea where I met the rest of them.”

Matt had specifically asked Shiro and Pidge on their walk home not to divulge the bond between Matt and Shiro, despite their protestations of remaining transparent and Shiro only half joking about Matt being embarrassed.  Frankly, Matt believes the information about the Leonic Angels and Pidge being a Lionheart will be enough to digest without the cherry on top of, _Oh, also, I have a mysterious, never-before-seen one-sided intimate emotional connection with this fugitive warrior from the Empire that no one understands and because of it I’ve now become, for whatever reason, an ultimately helpless target of Haggar herself who may or may not have infected me with some yet-to-be-known evil magic._

Matt shrinks under his father’s stare.  He wasn’t always such a strict person, and Matt knows the stress of tension throughout Arus has been eating at his parents.  Colleen’s upheld her own gentle personality, but her eyes have grown more tired these days.  Matt knows he hasn’t exactly been making things easier on them, but the rules are unfair to him and Pidge as well.

“I can help them on their journey,” Matt says, perhaps stupidly.  “I know how to fight if they need it.”

“You’ve never been in a real battle,” Colleen says.  Matt doesn’t correct her because she’s technically right—today was the first battle he saw, and he didn’t _exactly_ participate.

“Shiro could teach us to fight,” Pidge suggests, trying to be helpful.  “All of us.”

Though equally hesitant, Colleen seems to be taking the situation in greater stride than Sam.  She considers for a moment, and Matt finds himself holding his breath.  “If there is truly a need for this quest, Matt, I don’t think you would need to be part of it.”

“We haven’t heard from Allura just yet—” Matt tries to insist, but Sam cuts him off with a gesture.

“I agree, son, we’ve needed you here enough as it is.  We’ve let you run off alone more than we should have.”

“I wouldn’t have to run off if—”

“You are the Holt Prince; your responsibility is to your people first.”

“So let me help my people by helping the Angels—if they protect all of Arus, the people would be fine.”

“If there _is_ a quest, and—gods forbid—Katie is obligated to leave, we would need you here more than ever.  Besides, the Remembrance Festival is coming, and the gala is your job to plan and prepare.”

“You’re worried about me planning a party?” Matt scoffs, not bothering to care that his voice has been raising with undignified indignation.  “That’s your priority?”

“My priority is the safety of my family, of my people,” Sam snaps.  “ _Our_ people.  I don’t like the thought of either of you leaving—under any circumstances.  But Katie is the Lionheart of you two, yes?  So if you both left, who would handle the kingdom if something happened to me or your mother?”

“Nothing will happen if you let me—”

“What will you do out there that’d be of greater benefit than staying here?”

The words sting like a slap, but it’s only from how right they are.  Still, Matt’s reaction is to fight back.  He can’t stay cooped up in here with petty household concerns.  “Dad, I don’t _belong_ here.”

“This is not your ticket for rebellion, son!  Not wanting to do what you have to do is not good enough to justify neglecting it.”

“It’s late,” Colleen interrupts, the soft final warning in her tone likely directed to both her husband and son.  “Master Takashi—”

“Shiro, please,” he insists.

Colleen smiles.  “Shiro.  We can show you to a spare chamber for the night, and the bathhouse is yours to use.  If Princess Allura is to send a summons as you say, I think the best course of action for now is wait for that information.  You agree, dear?”

Sam grunts in assent, but his expression hints that he has more opinions to share.  All he supplies though is an abysmal, “Any more discussion tonight will become futile anyway; we’re all exhausted.”

Matt makes a final attempt.  “Dad, please just let me—”

“Good night, son.”

Pidge takes reluctant hold of Matt’s arm when he stares after his father retreating into an adjacent corridor.

“I’m so glad you’re both safe,” Colleen breathes as she turns to follow her husband.  “That’s all I’ve cared about.”

When their parents disappear, closing the door behind them, Pidge manages to spin Matt around to leave through a different corridor toward the kitchen, Shiro giving him a concerned look.

“They’re usually a lot less formal,” Pidge tells Shiro as they leave the room.

Matt scowls as he storms ahead of his sister despite her protests and pleas.  It’s not her he’s angry with, so perhaps this behavior is unfair.  But who is he really angry with?  It shouldn’t be his parents; what had they said that wasn’t true, that wasn’t inherently dutiful even?  They spoke only honestly as parents and rulers.  Matt is the Holt Prince, not a Lionheart.  The only association he has with the Leonic Angels and their purpose is ultimately just a side effect.  So why is his face heating with anger bordering on despair?  Is he angry with himself for ever leaving the castle in the first place?  Angry with the Empire, with Lotor for making it so that he wasn’t supposed to leave?  With Shiro for connecting them in what can’t be a particularly fruitful relationship?

Maybe he shouldn’t be angry at all, Matt rationalizes, slowing his steps and at once longing for nothing more than a bath.  It’s been a long, long day, and he’s tired.  That’s all.

So why does he flinch when Shiro calls after him this time?

 

* * *

 

Damn it all, Matt can’t sleep.

He’s gathered a wink here and there, but with his mind and conscience so busy, he can hardly keep still.  So he rises from the embrace of cotton sheets and down pillows and exchanges it for that of his loose-fitting, sheer bed robes.  Matt drags his hands over his face, chasing off the crumbs of failed sleep, and stares into the mirror of his chamber, his silhouette cast in pale light from the garden torches outside below his window and the night sky above.

The peach-gold layers of sheer fabric cascade around his lithe figure—more that of a runner than a warrior.  He laid down with damp hair from his bath, and now sections of it bunch and tangle with little poise, the perfume of shampoo wafting to his nostrils as he runs his hands through the auburn tendrils.  Then he stops, slapping his hands to his side, then folding his arms.  What is he trying to look good for?

His jaw clenches, the angles of his clean face plain but not unseemly, but he matches his own stare in the reflection, and Matt sees someone else, someone ghostly—the pale lighting catching the gloss of his robe only adding to the metaphor.  His eyes are different than they’d been this morning—or rather, yesterday morning more like it, judging by the shadows from the moon.  If his studies gave him anything, it’s the uncanny ability to tell time.

Matt squints at his reflection, a scowl twisting the corner of his mouth.  “What are you looking at?” he mutters.

He decides to take a walk.  Barefoot across the polished sandstone floors, Matt paces the corridor of his chamber, vaguely wondering if spending more time in the halls, touching stone to skin more often will make this castle feel more like home.  He runs his fingers along the grooves in the wall, and stops short halfway through his aimless journey to rest his head against the stone.

Matt sighs. _What’s the matter with me?_

The overhead sconces cast lively shadows in the otherwise still dark.  Matt hears a distant, muffled thump from the direction of Shiro’s guest chambers, and Matt cautiously moves toward the door, slightly ajar.  He sees a moving shadow shaped like Shiro through the crack, and Matt decides to announce himself right away rather than snoop.

“Everything alright?” he says softly.

The sound of movement stops.  “Matt?  What are you doing up?”

“Wondering what you’re doing up.”

“Did I wake you up?”

Matt laughs.  There’s no way those little sounds would have carried all the way to his own bedchamber, but he picks fun anyway.  “You woke up half the castle, you bronco.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m kidding, I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either.”  A beat.  “Are you okay?”

Matt pauses, thinking back to Haggar’s hand around his neck, her voice in his ear, her wraiths of sleep.  He thinks about how it scared Pidge, and he thinks about the argument with his parents, the arguments he’s been having with himself.  He swallows.  “I’m fine.  Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah, yes, I just, um, you can—Can you come in, actually?”

Matt swears he can hear the blush in Shiro’s voice, and with a bemused smirk, he creaks open the door further to step into the room.

Shiro’s standing by the bed, arms in a peculiar twist around his torso—his very unclothed torso.  “I need you to, um…”  He jerks his head as a vague gesture to indicate the half-unraveled bandage on his side.

Matt blinks in his assessment of the situation, initially trying to ignore the way the soft lighting of the bedside candles and fragments of night falling through the windows rest upon the ridges and plains of Shiro’s toned arms, his shoulders, his chest.  He blushes when he sees a similar appraisal in Shiro’s eyes despite Matt’s unruly bedhead and shapeless pajamas.  They both avert their gazes.

Matt slips into feigned nonchalance that quickly becomes authentic as he steps toward Shiro’s side.  A smile twitches at the corners of Matt’s mouth as he watches Shiro awkwardly try to hold the remaining wrapping in place.  The pose looks so uncomfortable, Shiro grimacing like he just stepped in something wet.  Matt’s not laughing _at_ him; it’s just an entertaining juxtaposition of this sight versus the valiant image of him in battle earlier today.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Shiro chides good-naturedly as Matt relieves him of his contortion to take over the bandaging.

“I thought Allura healed you,” Matt says, his hands ministrating the gauze around Shiro’s ribs, and he ignores them both ignoring the way Shiro’s breath catches when Matt’s fingers brush his skin—it’s hard, though, with the purple light and everything.  “She fixed my _eyes,_ for crying out loud.”

“I told her not to.”  Shiro winces at the touch of cold air on the exposed wound.

Matt sets the old bandage beside the dishes of water and dressing on the bedside table.  He sits on the mattress to level himself with the wound and strains the cloth of excess water, beginning to gently clean the gash.  “Why?”

Shiro scoffs, almost too quietly to notice.  “I guess my thought was that I had all those other wounds that healed naturally.  I figured there was no reason to start using healing magic now.  Arrogant, huh?”

“Honorable.”

“Stubborn.”

“Stubbornly honorable.”  Matt smiles, and he can’t stop his eyes from exploring the rest of Shiro’s skin.  The lighting is dim, and he’s been so focused on the new wound that he didn’t even take note of the dozens of old scars all over him.  A myriad of littered lashes, old holes, tears, and strikes, mottled by shadows of varied healing all scour and bevel the topography of Shiro’s skin.

Taken aback, Matt manages to minimize any visible reaction, but he forgets he’s touching Shiro so it doesn’t matter.  “I survived them all,” Shiro says in response to the misplaced concern.

Quickly, Matt returns his full attention to the rag and the wound.  “I saw you hesitate today, with Sendak.  You looked scared even though you won, and I realized I’ve seen that look before—on Keith.”

Shiro shoots him a curious glance.  Matt’s worried he’s said too much, but Shiro looks more inquisitive than doubtful.  Barely does Matt realize he’s never actually told the story out loud, but he dictates it as if it’s nothing, even grinning when he gestures to the thin scar by his jaw.  “Gave me this.  I knew I recognized him, but it wasn’t until I saw the way you looked at Sendak that I remembered.  I was on my way home from town one day, probably a few years ago, and I was jumped by some kid with half his face covered.”

Shiro sways in surprise, but Matt dismisses the concern with a shrug.  “I was scared, sure, but had the change to spare so I gave him what was on me.  But before he ran off, I noticed he looked scared too.  Like he didn’t know what would happen next.

“I never said anything, of course, because what would that have done?  I would have had to admit I left the castle grounds unprotected, and I’d be putting him at risk from the guard, and that didn’t seem right, because I could just tell it was like he didn’t want to do it.  He didn’t want to be that person.”

There’s a pause, the silence broken only by the trickling of water straining from the rag.

Shiro puffs out a small laugh at some distant thought, and it’s Matt’s turn to look at him inquisitively.  “That was probably when our dad found me and asked for my help with him,”  Shiro muses.

For a second, Matt isn’t sure if he’s meant to inquire further, but Shiro elaborates unprompted.  “I didn’t know Keith existed for most of his life.  After my mom died, I left home and decided to train in the guard—your guard, actually; but don’t worry, we never met,” he adds with a small smirk.  “In the meantime, my dad met Keith’s mom—a Galran soldier part of an inside army fighting the Empire.

“They had Keith, but she was called to duty, and I guess Keith didn’t take it well.  He started acting out, getting in trouble—most of the consequences worse because of his bloodline.  Our dad sought me in the crownsguard, asked me to come back and help.  So I did.

“But someone in the Empire found out about Krolia, her betrayal to the Galra and her family in our village, and an army came to take her son and destroy everything in the village.  Our dad sacrificed himself to make sure Keith and I got out, and we’ve been running for our lives ever since.”

Matt’s hand pauses, rag hovering at Shiro’s side, trying to think of what to say that won’t sound hollow.  He fails and reminds himself again to keep cleaning.  He rinses the rag in the bowl, grabbing the jar of poultice to carefully dab it onto the gash.

Shiro’s ribs rise and fall under Matt’s fingers; he deliberately slows his breathing after the recollection, and Matt slows his own movements unintentionally.  His damp fingers brush Shiro’s forearm in place of words, but he pulls back at the gentle light.  Such beautiful light—does Matt deserve such a light? he ventures with unexpected weight in his chest.  

Matt stands to carefully begin wrapping the fresh bandage.   _Stop making everything about you._

Shiro breathes in like he wants to say more, but his eyes stray to watch Matt’s hands moving around his waist, holding the bandage flush to his skin.

“You’re too good for your own good,” Matt concludes with a half-smile.

Matt tries to ignore Shiro watching him, but he fails miserably and glances up when Shiro observes, “You’re sad.”

“It was a sad story.”

“Sorry, I guess tragic origins is a lot for the first night together.”

Matt laughs in spite of himself.  “It’s fine, don’t apologize, I—Thank you for trusting me with it.”

“You wanted me to trust you, remember?”

“Mm.  I remember.”

“You’re still sad.”

“I’m not sad, I’m just tired.”

“I can finish if you want to go to bed.”

Shiro reaches to take over but Matt gently swats him away.  “No, you’ll dislocate something.  You should be tired too, anyway.  I mean, you deserve to be tired.”

“I ‘deserve’ it?” Shiro queries with a smirk.

“No, not—I didn’t mean—That’s—”  Matt winces in his self-awareness when Shiro chuckles.  Matt sighs, and in a storm of fatigued, preoccupied thought, his hands slow to a stop, fingers resting on top of the gauze with unnecessary focus on the weaving and texture, and he’s rambling aimlessly before he can stop himself.  “It’s just—you know, Dad was right; what do I even have to do with any of this?  You, and Pidge, and the others, you’re Lionhearts.  There’s a purpose to that, a—a—you have a meaning, a place.  You—you’re important, and you all have your bond now that makes you all part of each other and I’m… I’m not part of anything.  What am I?”

“You’re Prince Matthew Holt,” Shiro offers earnestly.

Matt scoffs.  “Just because I have a title doesn’t mean I’m important.

When he takes his next shaky breath, Matt’s words echo back to him from the outside and he shakes his head dismissively and completes the binding of Shiro’s bandage.  “Wow, sorry, that was—I’m more tired than I thought.”  He wants to duck out, leave the room and forget his existentialism.   _Stop whining like a child, Your Highness,_ he scolds himself bitterly.  

Matt moves to retract his hands, but Shiro catches them gently with his own.  The touch trips a dull violet pulse from Shiro’s fingertips.  It hypnotizes Matt enough to stay his footing, and Shiro proceeds to unfurl his fingers against Matt’s until their palms are flush.

Shiro’s light twines around his fingers, thrumming in his palms and trailing down his arms with Matt’s eyes following.  Against the dark of the room, the light of Shiro’s skin is brighter than Matt’s seen it yet.  He watches the smattered shades of purple glimmer and climb and bloom in endlessly changing patterns.  He smiles, delighted and transfixed, practically forgetting his moody digression.

“You do this to me,” Shiro whispers like he’s both consoling Matt and reminding himself.  “Nobody else.  That has to mean something.”

Matt scoffs desperately.  He wants to believe it, but...

Shiro pauses a moment.  “When I met you, what struck me most was your… confidence.  You were bold, and sure.  And in the glade, there was a moment, and I think in that moment, all I wanted was that security.  So Amaria must have set this in motion, letting me feel you, so for once I could at least feel sure about _something_ —even if it wasn’t my own feelings.”

“That sounds ridiculous,” Matt says without conviction.  Matt?  Confident and secure?  It’s an act, that’s the only sure thing about him.  He thinks too much too fast, so he has to act faster.  He just wants to stay in motion, that’s all.

Still, Shiro’s words set his heart aflutter only for it to droop in his chest when he thinks: how disappointed Shiro must be now to see the security he’d wanted so badly that an ancient bonding spell connected them was a complete farce.

“You really can’t feel anything?” Shiro asks, as if hearing Matt’s very thoughts and wanting to disprove them.

Mechanically, Matt shakes his head.  All he feels is the mundane yet intoxicating electricity sprinting through his veins, skin tingling with their proximity.  Matt laces their fingers together as if he might manage to squeeze out the right touch of magic so he can have some for himself.  “I feel your heartbeat.  It’s fast.”

“It’s trying to match yours.”

Matt flicks his eyes up to meet Shiro’s—he only now notices they’ve each moved in a bit closer.  “What does it feel like?  Well, me, I guess—What do I feel like?  You know what I mean.”

Shiro gives him a wan smile, chewing his lip a moment as he gathers the words.  “It feels… heavy, I guess—like a dense air.  Kind of electric, but in a good way, like that feeling right before a storm.”

“Are you saying I’m a force of nature?”

“I get that sense, yeah.”

They laugh, hushing the sound, and Matt breathes through a tight chest.  Shiro leans in closer, his grip of Matt’s hands tightening ever so slightly.  His nose brushes Matt’s forehead before resting his own against it.

“And this?” Matt whispers with a smirk, succumbing to the air of the moment and tucking away his inhibition for now.  He brings his hands to fit against Shiro’s face, closing the distance between them.  “What does this feel like?”

Their kiss earlier had been rushed, almost panicked.  It was impulsive and uncertain.  This time, Matt’s still uncertain, but not about kissing Shiro.  They take their time, take it easy as they explore the taste of each other, the depth.  They kiss like the tide;  shallow then deep, shallow then deep.

Shiro holds back, his own uncertainty clear, but they find a good footing, the right fit against each other.  It emboldens Shiro enough to gently knot one hand through Matt’s hair, the other settling at his waist to pull him inches closer.  The thin fabric of Matt’s robes does little to filter the warmth of Shiro’s palm, and Matt’s skin tingles.  

The wash of reverent sensations sparks a giddiness inside Matt and apparently Shiro as well.  Behind closed eyes, Matt sees the light in Shiro’s face swell even brighter, and Matt fights a smile with determination to keep the kiss going.  But his exhaustion weakens his defenses and willpower, and he starts to giggle like a child, so much so he has to break away and tuck his face into the crook of Shiro’s neck to stifle the laughter.  The warm skin there glows soft too, and Matt wonders briefly if maybe he did fall asleep and all this is some mirthful, shamelessly indulgent dream.  For Shiro, the laughter is contagious, and he buries his mouth in Matt’s hair to quiet his own soft sounds.

Their laughing fit is brief, but even after it subsides, Matt keeps leaning into Shiro’s chest, arms around his waist, careful to avoid the new bandaging.  As he sobers and recalls every detail of the day, Matt feels increasingly foolish more than anything.  He was impulsive and reckless, immature, and he’d worried everyone and only gotten in the way of anyone else, and now, instead of being rational, he keeps tossing away thoughts for thrills.  He doesn’t _deserve_ any part of this; what’s he done to earn it?

Matt realizes Shiro must surely be awash in these shifting currents of emotion, so Matt shows mercy in peeling away from their embrace, voice caked as if he’s just woken up.  “We should try to get some sleep.”

“What do you dream about?” Shiro asks suddenly, his lingering grip on Matt’s arm loose but still enough to stall Matt’s departure.

Matt gives him a delayed, curious smile.  “What?”

“Earlier, when you were unconscious.  I think you were dreaming, and you felt... happy, I think.  I guess I was just curious what you were dreaming.”

“It works even when I’m asleep?”

“Apparently.”

Matt holds Shiro’s wondrous gaze at a bit of a loss.   _Night sky eyes,_ he thinks again.  Matt shrugs, wrapping his hands around Shiro’s arms.  “I don’t remember,” he admits.  “Must not have been anything remarkable.  Why, what do you usually dream about?”

Shiro’s smile falters, saddening like a dying candle.  “Nothing so forgettable.”

Matt doesn’t push the subject.  He knows they both need rest, but neither moves at first, they laugh as they become aware of this.  Matt has to take the initiative, he resolves.  He shouldn’t be here, right?  It’s inappropriate, isn’t it?  And Shiro’s not a ticket to rebellion.  He deserves more than to be an escape.  That’s not fair.  Matt has to leave.

He unwinds his arms from Shiro’s and pivots to walk back toward the door.  He hears Shiro exhale behind him, and the rustle of fabric.  Matt’s willpower still weak, he tosses a glance over his shoulder in the doorframe.

Shiro’s pulled a shirt back on, and he sits at the edge of his bed, back toward Matt.  In the deep, soft light, Matt watches the shape of him breathe, slow like the tide: in, and then out.  And too like the tide, like the undertow, Matt stops fighting and lets himself get dragged right into the depths.

“Bad unforgettable?”  Matt walks back toward Shiro and sits next to him on the bed.  “Your dreams, I mean.  You said they’re not forgettable.  Are they bad?”

Shiro tilts his head, expression inscrutable.  “Usually.”

Matt isn’t sure what answer he expected, or if there was even an answer he wanted, but regardless he doesn’t have any further conversation prepared.  But he doesn’t want to leave.  Shiro has bad dreams; that’s a good enough reason to stay right? Matt tries to convince himself as he helplessly rests his head on Shiro’s shoulder.

He tries to make a whole list of reasons to justify it, to let himself believe he should stay, but none of them convince him as much as the simple gesture of Shiro’s resting his head against Matt’s.

 

* * *

 

Rajalti steps out of her body.  She is weightless.  Looking over her shoulder, the Green Lion’s cloaking magic conceals the sleeping forms of Rajalti, Michlo, and Kaerda, but here in the in-between, Rajalti can see the mingling colors of their auras.

A smell of stardust encircles Rajalti, the breath of the sky.  She closes her eyes and tastes it in the back of her throat, reveling in the unforgotten embrace of her astral dreams.  Her last visit seems so long ago.  A familiar presence encourages her to open her eyes once more, and her breath is swept from her chest as she is relieved from a burden she has carried for so long she has forgotten it has been there.

 _Alfor…_ she sighs.

He smiles at her, his ceremonial robes embroidered with ghostly star streams, his beard and hair silvered with magic and time.  “My dear Rajalti,” he croons, stepping forward.  He is so close, his aura so strong, Rajalti can feel him even though here they cannot touch.

 _My daughter,_ rumbles another familiar, if long unheard voice.  Rajalti’s eyes tear away from the shape of her last Heart, and as if blown in by the wind over the dew, the great White Lion stands behind Alfor.

His image towers yet wavers, but his starlight eyes fill Rajalti with solemn comfort.   _You have grown,_ Cosra says, gaze twinkling.

Rajalti, though her physical form slumbers safely behind her, strains against the pull of sleep at her core.  Here, before the spirits of her Hearts from times past, Rajalti feels as though she has aged back in time, and a childish need to curl asleep between the two aches in her heart.  She looks between them.

 _You have been silent for so long,_ Rajalti laments. _I have felt so lost._  She focuses once more on Alfor.   _Allura, she is afraid.  Why have you given her no word?_  She tries to stifle the sorrow in her voice, the ache, desperate to uphold her understanding and calm, but in her weariness loses some of her control.

Sorrow reflected in his own face, Alfor sighs heavily.  “I understand why she never told you, but you should know now, Rajalti; I cannot reach my daughter, for she has been forsaken from Oriande’s reach.”

Rajalti’s blinks, ears flattening. _I do not understand._

 _The last pride of Angels sought to disband the junction of their souls,_ Cosra says, his voice growing cool, visage stony, and an ambient breeze tousles the fur of his and Alfor’s silver hair. _But Amaria cannot be broken by any of the purific magic in the realm of Oriande.  I do not harbor any means by which my spell can be undone.  Its very purpose, its integral foundation is to pervade._

“But the matter was urgent, you surely recall.  So Allura had to seek the unbinding by... other means.”

Rajalti is loath to await the words they are to share next, her heart preemptively clenching with dread as she pulls fragments of memories and rationalities to construct her supposition. _She sought the aid of the Druids._

Alfor seems to age as his head hangs, and his own timeless bond with Rajalti, not broken before his death, still has enough strength to echo in her heart.  “A choice that was not made lightly.  Allura is a brilliant girl.  She knew the limits of her strength and that she did not have the time, knowledge, or power needed to take such drastic action.  A dangerous choice, one with devastating consequences for Allura, but I do believe it was the right one for her to have made.”

Rajalti cannot convince herself one way or the other if Alfor is sincere in his belief, or if he is simply defending his daughter out of unending paternal devotion.  Yet, upon her recollection of those years ago, the burden of her grief with which she burdened the last generation to the point of inaction, Rajalti decides she cannot blame anyone for their supposed irrationality.

 _That is why we come to you now, my daughter,_ Cosra says.   _It was unclear until your new pride was formed, but due to Allura’s contract with the Druids, a gash has been scored in Amaria’s reaches.  The magic was meant only to be shared between Lions and Lionhearts, but now there is an opening through which the magic can both escape and be infiltrated._

The image of Matt and Shiro’s bond flashes within Rajalti’s mind—so had their connection had not been the wish-granting of Amaria after all, but rather a mere leak in Shiro’s soul?  She is not eager to suggest such a thing to either of them.

Sensing her distress, Alfor gazes upon Rajalti with such longing, such compassion, and she in turn longs to feel the reach of his hands for comfort, but in astral dreams, they cannot touch, for then her spirit would be bound to the realm, and she is not yet finished with her time in mortality.

She straightens her posture, looking to Cosra with a kindling of determination in her heart.   _What is it my pride and I are to do?_

 _You do not need to find Oriande,_ the White Lion instructs.   _You need to find the Druid with which Allura struck a deal, and you must destroy their passage to Amaria._

_Their passage?_

“An amulet,” Alfor explains.  “It was a gift I gave to my daughter not long after you and I forged our Amarian bond.  I crafted it from a strand of your fur and my own hair, twining them as a symbol of our bond, and the hairs bound a capsule of petals touched by my daughter’s breath.  I performed a ritual to bless the amulet with a protection spell—a promise that you and I, Rajalti, would always watch over her.

“In disguise, Allura traded the amulet to a Druid who created a reverse image of the spell and what it contained.  That is how she broke the bonds of the last pride.  Find that Druid, retrieve the amulet, and restore it to my daughter.  She can then use it as a key to at last visit Oriande herself, and there she can heal the hole in Amaria.  And, too, I will at last be able to visit her.”

Alfor’s desperation against the backdrop of Cosra’s stoicism is enough to send a dash of both doubt and anticipation through Rajalti’s spine.  But she has faith in her pride.  She loves Allura as though she were her own.  Rajalti is steady as she holds the gazes of her Hearts past, and she nods in a solemn vow.

No words left to be spoken, Alfor and Cosra bid their farewells amongst the shafted vapors of night sky glow as their forms disappear on a breeze that smells of green.


	8. The Darkest Heart

Shiro was unprepared to blink himself awake against the late morning light.  He slept past sunrise—something he hasn’t done in a while; the dreams tend to prevent him from doing as much.  Usually his solace from such nightmares is watching the sunrise, but Shiro realizes that after he and Matt fell asleep talking, he can’t recall having those dreams at all.

Though Shiro relishes taking in the ribbony scarlet horizons of a new day, he’s not disappointed to have missed it this time.  Even in spite of Rajalti’s unsettling news from the night, Shiro still allows himself to find a sense of peace for now.  Lying crossways atop the sunlit bedsheets, Shiro takes in the sight of Matt’s figure next to him, hair and skin and robes aglow in blooming haloes.  Matt opens bleary eyes, orienting himself to realize he fell asleep beside Shiro, he tucks an embarrassed grin into the crook of his arm and muffles a laugh, and Shiro dares think it’s better than any sunrise.

“Hi,” sighs Matt through the cracks of a voice caked in sleep.

Shiro chuckles softly as well, his own cheeks heating, but not out of any sort of shame.  “Hi.”

Nothing about his time knowing Matt has been in accordance with any semblance of normalcy, so Shiro’s been rather lenient on what he would consider “wrong.”  Of course, he’s not royalty, so perhaps his frame of reference is somewhat skewed from Matt’s.  Barring the castle setting, Shiro would forget Matt was a prince at all if not for the glint of his tiny gold leaf earrings.  Shiro wonders if Matt likes them, if he wears them on purpose, or if they’re simply customary accents he forgets he’s put in.  How strange, Shiro thinks, how little he truly knows about Matt at all—and yet, it’s as if it doesn’t matter.  Is it so bold to say that?  Is this really all some coincidence—Matt being too close to the flame of a... hacked spell?

 _Collateral,_ Shiro muses wryly.

But, in fact, the nature of their connection, the gift from Amaria, is the reason Shiro blushes as Matt gathers himself to sit up with deceptive poise.

“How’s your side?” Matt asks, alerting himself at once with the twitch of a hand he restrains from reaching for Shiro’s wound.

Until this second, Shiro forgot it was there.  “I’m fine,” he assures Matt.

The intimacy of their Amarian bond has driven Shiro to forget the two of them have really only just met, and though he isn’t ashamed of his emotions, he still finds them a bit jarring at times—mostly when they’re combined with Matt’s.

Sweltering in Matt’s embarrassment, Shiro sits up at the edge of the bed alongside him, close enough for their shoulders to touch.  Unspoken apologies flicker in Matt’s tired eyes, and the need to provide unspoken reassurance pulls Shiro to lean even closer against Matt with a smile.  Even without words, even without Amaria for himself, Matt immediately relaxes, and both their smiles— their still-shy smiles, their “what do we do now” smiles—widen and warm the room with a sense of ease and optimism.

He asks Rajalti, _Was it really all a mistake?  With Matt—my Amaria?_

The Black Lion sighs at the reaches of Shiro’s mind, and she speaks with patient reassurance. _Do not be so distraught, my cub._ _An accident is not always a mistake.  Mistakes are from which we are to learn to do better.  But sometimes, an accident might perhaps_ be _for the better._

This does little to truly appease Shiro’s worries.  He thinks of what he’s already put Matt through; he replays the argument with the Holt king and queen, and he replays the sight of Matt’s collapse under Haggar’s dark grasp.  Shiro’s hand reaches for the bandage high on his ribs.   _What if it isn’t?_

 _If it is not for the better,_ she surmises, as though only now coming to the realization,  _then you must make of it the best that you can._

“What’s wrong?” Matt asks, noting the shadows in Shiro’s visage, the ease of the morning faltering.

The ease is further ruptured by a pounding and chirruping at the chamber door.  Matt panickedly slides to the floor behind the bed just as the unlocked arch opens for Rover to zoom in and merrily nestle atop Matt’s head as if the prince were not hidden at all.

“Shiro,” Pidge calls, bracing herself in the doorframe.  “Did the Lions— _There_ you are,” she says to Matt, noticing Rover atop her brother’s head.

Begrudgingly, Matt rises from the floor, and Pidge’s face turns smug.  “So, it turns out Rover’s thermal vision can pick up even old trails too,” she says.

Proud of himself, Rover chucks, apparently unaware of Matt beneath him glowing red out of both embarrassment and anger.

“You weren’t in your room, but he had no problem tracking you down to this one.”  Pidge arches an eyebrow.  “Is _that_ why you wanted Shiro to come to the castle?”

“No!” Matt protests at once, startling Rover from his temporary auburn nest.  “It was nothing like that.”

“Really,” Pidge deadpans, unconvinced but also unconcerned.

It’s not without great effort that Matt tries to push past his sister’s intrusion.  “What’s going on?” he inquires, glancing between she and Shiro.  “Is everything okay?”

“We need to meet with the Lions,” Shiro explains with purposeful vagueness, trying to keep at bay the dismay from Rajalti that creeps along his shoulders even while apart such a distance.

Pidge nods then says to Matt, “But Dad was looking for you.  I think he wants to apologize and talk some more now that we’ve all slept.”  With a smirk she adds, “Good thing he and Mom weren’t the ones to find you in here.”  She cackles softly, turning to reenter the hallway as Rover chirrups once before following.  

Shiro rises in suit with a sympathetic glance to a sour-faced Matt.  “I’ll find you later,” he says, offering an encouraging smile, departing only when Matt relents to smirk back.

“Only if I wanna be found,” Matt retorts warmly.

Shiro makes his way after Pidge, the glow of Matt’s aura fading from him, and with it, his own sense of certainty.

 

* * *

 

With a shaky breath, Allura straightens her posture with critical regard to her reflection in the tall bedroom sea-glass mirror.  Just outside the chamber door stand her closest courtiers, Coran, Romelle, and Lance.  Though they insisted upon helping her, taking her place, Allura in turn insisted to have them simply wait as she prepares to address her people.  Today she must officially announce the death of Queen Alís.

Allura knows Altea will mourn alongside her.  Many will wail in despair at once upon hearing the news, others will bow their heads in silence, and others still will cast their vitriol toward the sky and hope the clouds will catch their breath and with it brew a vengeful storm whose gales will carry their hate into the ears and homes of the Galra.  Allura has only love for these people, _her_ people now, and she owes them a reign of truth and prosperity—not only as her formal duty, but as a moral debt to the love they always showed her parents and herself as well.  And if not for either of those, then for the reason she is merely not one to apply herself halfly.

Nonetheless, her people will grieve, and as is custom upon the death of an Altean monarch, the kingdom will hold a week-long vigil during which respects will be paid.  During this time also, Allura will brace for her coronation, a ceremony she has never once looked forward too.  Her people have always embraced her, for she is the daughter of Alfor and Alís, their beloved king and queen.  However, the people’s love for their departed king and queen could never surpass the love Allura has for her departed mother and father.  And so, though the princess knows her people will grieve with her then uplift her, Allura will be holding a different vigil all her own.

The threat of tears prickles yet again at the corner of her eyes, and Allura sniffs with resolve.   _No crying now._

“Princess?” Coran calls, his concern muffled but no less authentic through the steel-and-driftwood door.  “Are you ready?”

 _Not for this,_ she laments.  She scoffs to herself.   _How naive to never have thought I’d have to be ready for this._  “I’m coming,” she announces aloud.

Shoulders back, jaw set, Allura blinks away the last of the shine in her eyes and joins her companions outside her door.  At once Lance grabs her hand, Romelle grabs the other, and Allura smiles at them with regretful gratitude.  She sighs and slips her hands out of each of their grasps and pretends Coran isn’t looking at her like she’s the last good thing he has.

“Together, we will mourn,” she instructs, simply and compassionately, just as she’s been rehearsing.  “And then we will move on.”

 _Convince yourself,_ she thinks, _and you’ll convince them all._

Besides, there is always hope, and Allura takes comfort in knowing the Leonic Angels have returned, and she prays her people will put their faith in the pride as well.

Allura takes dignified steps to reach the balcony from which she overlooks the mass of onlookers below.  Her courtiers stand back, not crowding her but making it clear they are beside her, and even in the shadows of the wings and out of sight stands Keith to witness as well.  Below in the courtyard, gathered Alteans, Balmerans, and the scattered outliers of other inhabitants of the kingdom stand, the unenlightened ones shuffling and the suspicious ones preemptively forlorn.

Without instruction, the crowd’s gentle murmurs fall into even further silence as Allura reaches the bannister, and she begins her speech as she has prepared it—though the words have been practiced, they are not insincere.

“‘Look to the sea,’ my mother has said, ‘And you will see.’”  Allura smiles, wry and weak.  “She thought she was so clever.”  A tender echo of equally wry laughter ripples through the crowd.  “My father always said she was the true brain for both of them in their marriage.  She was a woman of wit, a mother of wisdom, and a queen of calculation.  But her calculation and brilliance were not accompanied by a cold heart—in fact, it was Alís’s enduring compassion that led to her very end.”

Allura knew word of her mother’s death already somehow began spreading, but a few surprised murmurs arise.  Gravely, Allura confirms, “As of yesterday, my mother, Queen Alís is dead.”

She allows the subdued shock a moment to settle.  “I know better than perhaps all—save Coran—” she corrects with a gesture to her mournful yet proud guardian and friend, “Alís’s death is at once like a light gone out in the storm.  But I also know that my mother, while she would be humbled by the depth of love from you all, her people, she would not want this loss to inhibit you further in any way.  

“When my father, King Alfor the Black Heart, died at the hands of the Galran Empire, we too of course mourned then.  But I remember my mother’s words: ‘Look to the sea, and you shall see.  You will see its unending motions, its rhythms, the tides like its breath, the waves like its pulse.  See the way it rises to the sky and brings life to the greens around us.  It does not stop.  Even amidst a storm, even amidst a frost, the sea finds a way.’

“She said this to me through her own tears at the loss of her husband, wiping away my own tears at the loss of my father.  But it was with a smile she said it, and it is with a smile I repeat it even now in her wake.  My mother had a gift for that, for providing smiles even in the nights of our time.  She was not only a mother to me, but to this kingdom.  And, as some of you might remember, she took on a role of motherly protector to none other than the Lions of the Leonic Angels.

“The Black Lion Rajalti was wounded so deeply by the loss of Alfor, her Heart, that my mother created a field of protection within our own forest grounds under which the Lions were shielded.  It was a place for the Black Lion to mourn and heal, and Alís tied the field to the magic of her own quintessence, so that as long as she lived the field would last.  But upon the field’s destruction soon followed Alís’s own.  But even with such a frightful demise, Queen Alís would not wish us fretfulness.  She would wish us hope, and faith—for her death is simply a part of the truth that the ancient pride, the Leonic Angels, has been restored.”

Of course word of this news too has not gone ignored throughout not only Altea, but all of Arus ever since Rajalti spirited away Shiro, but confirmation of the Lions and Lionhearts sends an even more apprehensive and unguarded gasp throughout Allura’s audience.  The princess finds a flicker of nerves has set her fingers and gut aquiver, but she takes a deep breath and minds her posture once again as she continues.

“Many fear the Angels, for their presence is a sign of detriment, of disaster, of war.  And of that I am understanding.  But, my people, I ask you to be understanding of this: the return of the Leonic Angels means too that only better times are to come—healing times.  

“My people, the people of Altea, the kingdom of Alfor and Alís, I do not ask you to disregard my parents’ death.  But I do ask you to rejoice, for it is with conviction that I announce the coming of a new era—an era that entails the end of the Galran Empire and its tyranny.”

Perhaps in immediate inspiration, or perhaps only in their bewildered mix of conflicting emotions, the crowd erupts into cheers.  Unable to restrain a prideful smirk, Allura encourages Lance to step forward.  She wishes the other Hearts could be here at this moment, so that they may abolish any doubt the Altean kingdom may harbor, but she trusts in Lance to be the face of the pride for now.

Without the need of words, Lance beams back at her, about to step forward, but to her own surprise and even brief reluctance, Lance whirls to grab hold of Keith’s wrist and drags him out of hiding from the wing and over beside Allura at the ledge.  Keith pales even further than normal, but Lance has no regard for his apparent stage fright—perhaps Lance has grown too comfortable in front of crowds to remember not everyone is so welcoming of an audience.

Her moment of concern passes immediately though, knowing Lance’s widely beloved smile and glow will be enough assurance to her people for now of the Leonic Angel’s return.  In all but a second, Allura considers these thoughts and turns back to address her people and announce the Hearts, but she is interrupted by a jarringly rageful cry from someone below.

“He’s Galra!”

And as if the other audience members had not yet noticed, they gasp in shock, and Allura’s heart skips with dread.

Lance’s smile falters, but he speaks out insistently.  “I’m the Blue Heart of the Leonic Angels, and this is Keith, the Red Heart.”

Keith pulls his ever-present scarf over his face to conceal his Galran marks and casts his yellowed eyes to his feet, but it’s a movement made feebly in vain.  Another voice wails in despair, apparently deaf to all that has been spoken thus far.  “Oh Gods, have the Galra truly infiltrated the ancient pride?”

“It is the ghost of Zarkon come for his coveted power!”  Cries converge in mirthful agreement.

“What are you—No!” Lance rebutes indignantly.  He exchanges a confused glance with Allura.  The princess then directs her gaze to Keith, but he’s frozen, masked face contorted and downcast with shock and shame.  At once this has all gone all wrong.  Allura wants to panic, wants to ask her mother and father for help, but in all but a second she reminds herself she can’t.  Her parents aren’t here anymore, and her past actions will never allow her to find them. These people are her responsibility now, this duty hers alone.

“Please,” the princess calls over the growing rumbles of dismay and suspicion.  “Keith is our friend—mine and yours.  He has been chosen by the magic of Amaria itself!  The Red Lion, Branoc, has accepted him as her Lionheart, and I ask you, Altea, to believe me when I say the pride has returned with all the integrity it had before.”

There is a breath of consideration from the crowd, but it’s not enough to sway their anger as a new uproar swells.  “The princess has aligned with the Empire!  She has betrayed us already!”

“Oh, for the Gods’ sake—”  Coran lurches forward, and he wrenches the three of them away from the edge of the balcony behind him where nervously Romelle moves forward to their side.  “ _Enough!_ ” he commands over the din with more vim and vigor than Allura recalls ever seeing or hearing from him.  It’s enough to arrest even her own attention, Romelle taking her hand without anyone taking their eyes from this new demanding visage of quirky old Coran.  Allura can’t believe she’s forgotten he does carry actual authority.

The people too are simmered for the moment, and Coran takes full advantage of such a moment to speak.  “The kingdom of Altea has always been prided upon its sense of peace and healing!  We are a people of safety, a kingdom of refuge, and it was Queen Alís herself who welcomed this half-Galran boy into her very castle.  It was the magic of King Cosra himself, his spirit ever watchful from the realm of Oriande, the gift of Amaria that chose residence within this boy.  For you to be afraid of his face is for you to forsake the wisdom and power of Cosra and the judgement of our beloved Alís.  All of you, everyone who came here to indulge their grief of the Queen should be ashamed for such a reaction as this.”

There is silence.  Consideration and reflection are nearly palpable from the crowd below, but Allura too finds herself feeling ashamed—not for her regard of Keith’s obvious bloodline, but for the simple fact it was not her who managed to tame the people for even a second.  Apologetic, she looks to Romelle at her side, anxiety etched into her lady’s every pore, nose twitching like a mouse ready to dart, and then to Keith and Lance the side opposite, Lance’s expression wounded and Keith’s nothing short of bitter, of his own mourning.  But he’s not the one who should be feeling so guilty.  It hurts Allura’s heart even more to have already failed her kingdom’s trust.

 

* * *

 

Keith storms into the chamber within which Irazu and Branoc have spent the night.  Wading in his despair before he even emerges, Branoc is tense and worrisome.

 _My Heart,_ she croons, _tell me what has happened._

“Keith, please!” Allura’s voice echoes through the hallway after him, prefacing her own breathless entrance into the chamber.  Irazu merely tilts her head, ears swiveling but eyes locking onto that of her own Heart as Lance trails in after the princess, exhausted and embarrassed.

Keith whirls around to face the two of them, his tongue bitter and his eyes burning.  “Why did you do that?” he roars, and Branoc flinches, more from the venom than the volume, but Lance blanches from the latter.

“Allura wanted the people to see the Lionhearts,” Lance practically whimpers.  “I just…”

“You could have prepared me!”

“How was I supposed to know that would happen?”

“Do you _remember_ who killed Alfor and Alís?” Keith challenges, voice breaking from shouting so hatefully.  “Alteans have the most right to hate the Galra, and now that _I’m_ one of the Leonic Angels, they don’t trust _any_ of us!”

“That’s not true,” Allura pleads.  “They were just—”

“And great work controlling your people out there,” Keith sneers, pivoting back around to walk toward… anywhere else.  “First day on the job was a good one.”  He wishes Shiro were here.  It’s childish, perhaps, but it’s all he wishes.  Branoc exudes her consoling warmth, torn between anger at misunderstanding and a simple need to soothe her Lionheart.

“It’s my fault, if you wanna be angry!” Lance asserts with sudden aggression.  “I’m sorry, Keith!  You’re right, I wasn’t thinking, but you don’t get to blame Allura for something she didn’t do!”

“I’ll do that when your kingdom stops blaming _me_ for something _I_ didn’t do!”  There is an agony in Keith’s chest, a forgotten pain and despair that he’s been carrying for a very long time.  It’s a pain he thought was gone when he became a Lionheart—a true Lionheart, bonded to the others and part of the pride, part of the Leonic Angels—but no, it’s still here, a scab rubbed raw and freshly bleeding: No one wants him.

As if reading and aching to disprove those words in his thoughts, Branoc winches a red-hawk wing in a motion of shelter around her Heart, trying so desperately not to overbear at this very moment.  The Blue Lion, aching in turn from her own Heart’s shame and desperation, twitches her tail and emits a low, somber rumble.

“That wasn’t fair,” Lance sympathizes, and Keith can’t look him exactly in the eye.  “Alís took me in too, a long time ago, a lot like she took in you and Shiro.  But I guess I was stupid to think our people wouldn’t treat someone who’s Galra different than they’d treat one of their own.  It’s wrong, but I should have known better—but they should know better too!  They’re not better than you, Keith.  They don’t even know you!”

Irazu croons low in agreement, but she and Branoc flinch again at Keith’s bite.  “You don’t know me either!”

“Well, it’s not like you make it easy!”  Lance’s switch flips from sorrowful to defensive in a split—so fast, Keith almost allows himself to be impressed.

“You would have never cared if we weren’t forced to be Lionhearts together—even then you made it clear you hate what I am.  We’re not friends.”

“Gee, you think maybe talking like that is exactly _why_ you don’t have friends?”

 _Enough!_ Branoc snaps, having had far past enough, and at once Keith and Lance are shamed into obedient silence.   _Must the two of you perpetually insist upon acting like insolent children?_

 _Downright brats, I should say,_ adds Irazu calmly with a flick of her tail.   _There have been many misunderstandings, many wounds both efore and because of our pride’s reformation.  Alas, there will be ever more, but we will have enough to combat outside the pride; stop inflicting these wounds upon each other._

Of course they’re right, Keith concedes inwardly.  Allura has only ever stood up for him; Coran did so too, just now, on behalf of his beloved princess, trying to smooth over Lance’s—albeit poorly thought-out—effort to do the very same.  Half the time, Keith doesn’t even _want_ to lash out like he does, but such a pervasive loneliness has made it a raw habit, a compulsion.  He’s usually sorry before he’s even spoken, but it’s never enough to stop his rash temper and pride.  He has to do better.

But he doesn’t have to speak for Branoc to know he harbors such guilt.  She casts a soothing wave of heat, though her own receding temper still weaves tension into her limbs and into Keith’s own.

There is a guarded moment betwixt the five, and then Allura breathes deeply and takes a diplomatic step forward.  She speaks softly now.  “Lance has always been a talented performer; he is used to adoration.  I have always been the daughter of a beloved king and queen; I am used to respect.  Neither of us know what it is to be hated on precedent, so neither of us gave any thought to the way my public would receive you within our borders, at my side.”

Crestfallen, Allura seems to blink back tears.  “Their reaction wasn’t right, but it wasn’t unbelievable.  I am so sorry.  Perhaps if it was my mother who’d introduced you, or even my father with his connection to the Black Lion, things would have gone better.  But I’m newly on my own, so the people have yet to trust me as a ruler.  And today I failed in bolstering that trust not only with them, but it hurt you as well, Keith.”

“A crying shame is the life of we half-bloods, no?”

The voice is new, echoing first around the chamber as if coming from all directions at once.  Its ricochet is much like that of Haggar’s during their battle in the clearing, and Keith tenses alongside the others.  But instead of a lone figure materializing, the entire space of the chamber wavers and warps, eerily shifting into an unsteady image of some unfamiliar dungeon room lit by plain fire torches that crackle against the drip of neglected moisture.

Looking around, Keith assesses no threats, but some burning instinct he’s never once ignored tells him there is something very wrong afoot.

A hooded figure cloaked suspiciously like the Druids steps out of the dancing shadows cast by the torchlight.  In this bizarre mirage field, they seem to flicker like an unreal specter, an ominous aura of icy purple-grey fog writhes ever so faintly around them.  Keith’s hackles raise in time with Branoc’s at his side, and Irazu leeringly takes a protective step to shield Allura and Lance.

“I’m glad I am finally able to reach you, Princess,” the figure says with no malice—only somber relief that resonates through the magic vision and into the crevices of the chamber.

“What are you doing here?” Allura poses.

Only now does Keith note the princess’s expression of shocked and dark recognition just in time to return his gaze to the figure as they remove the hood of their cloak.  To Keith he looks Galra, but not entirely, and it is a moment too late before it occurs to him this familiar stranger’s identity—one that causes Lance to assume a fresh air of hate.

“Lotor!” he seethes, lurching as if hoping to tackle the Galran Emperor right here and now, but Irazu growls a warning, reminding her Heart the image is only a projection.

Keith can’t explain his unease.  It’s not fear, not even hate, but to be face-to-face with Lotor himself puts Keith in a state of acid desperation.  At once, all he wants is to ask the Emperor, _Why?_

But Lotor isn’t here for Keith.  The curious magic screen of his form has only kept his sharp scrutiny upon Allura.  He holds up a hand, and from his fingers dangles a curious pendant, the threads thin and silvery, but appearing durable, like a spider’s web.

“I managed to find your essence through the amulet you gave me,” says the Emperor.  “It’s seems to come in handy for more than one purpose.  I must thank you again for trading with me.”

Keith, Lance, Branoc, and Irazu all whip their heads to the princess in heated confusion, but Allura only sighs wearily.

“You made a deal with _Lotor?”_ Keith demands.

Branoc hisses, _Is this true?_

The projection of Lotor arches a perturbed brow.  “You kept it a secret then, your means of shattering the former pride.”

Allura grimaces, obviously not wanting to have ever had this conversation, but the stares of those around her who trusted her, believed she had obtained her alchemical wisdom of Amaria from the realm of Oriande itself… Their betrayal and misunderstanding weigh down upon her, and Allura’s posture weakens.

“Allura?” Lance ventures, voice small.  At his side, Irazu glares with icy silence.  For the first time, Keith suspects even he might be feeling the beginnings of Branoc’s searing, angry heat.

“It’s not what you think,” she begins, and for the first time Keith can’t find any trace of the strong diplomat who had taken him in and upheld her poise with dignity and control.  Now, the princess is just someone who’s hurt and tired and desperate, and Keith can’t find it within himself to harbor the malice he suspects he should, despite not even having the full story yet.

However, she makes no further movement to provide that story at first, so Lotor summarizes in her place.  “The princess needed a fast and effective means to destroy the Leonic bonds that grew to inhibit the pride.  She did not have time to travel and study in Oriande, but I have already been there.  My Altean heritage allowed me passage the first time, and from that knowledge I was able to construct a mirror spell based on the princess’s protection amulet blessed by the Black Lion and Heart.”

“First time?” questions Lance warily, regressing.

Lotor nods.  “The Guardian of the Gate recognized my potential, my power.  And I learned much, though I did not pass every trial.  The Guardian told me I had more to learn here, in this realm first.  In my travels, seeking the knowledge I needed to return and complete my studies in Oriande, the witch Haggar and her Druids, unable to enter Oriande themselves due to their corruption, managed to find me and place upon me a binding that siphoned the knowledge I had gained in the Realm of the White Lion.  She sought the power of Cosra; she still seeks to find a way to control Amaria.

Irazu challenges Lotor coolly, betraying no emotion through her voice, but through the combined bond of their pride, Keith catches her apprehension.   _Why is it you come forth to tell us your little story?  Why here and now?_

“I’ve been imprisoned,” Lotor explains simply yet pleadingly.  Keith doesn’t want to trust him, but the Emperor exhibits such an earnest air that Keith has trouble assuming the worst, however sudden and strange all this information is.

Lotor continues.  “I have only managed to break free with the help of my own generals because Haggar has become preoccupied with her pursuits to manipulate Amaria.  She has been acting under my name and guise.  I assure you the capture of the Black Lion, the assaults on Arus, the mistrust and fear, these were not my doing nor my intention.  I truly do want peace.

“But when I tried to return to Oriande, the Guardian believed my—or perhaps rather, _our_ —” he corrects with a thoughtful blink at Allura “exploitation of the magic was one of deliberate betrayal and would not permit me to return.  So I came instead here, to the Empire, to destroy Zarkon and his reign of terror, but the Druids are more powerful than I’d known.”

 _Why should we believe a thing you say at all?_ adds Branoc acidly.

Nodding once more in patient understanding, the temperance of a powerful magician and ruler clear, the Emperor inhales carefully.  “Because the witch succeeded—well, closely enough to satisfy her for now, anyway.”

Keith narrows his eyes, inexplicable dread nestling into his chest at once.  “What do you mean?”

“Haggar wanted the power of Amaria, but she was never meant to be a Lionheart.  She had no Lion with which to access the magic.”  Lotor raises a glowing palm to the group in the chambers, and the images around him within his veil of projection begin to shift.  “So, with the knowledge I had gained and she stole, the witch made her own.”

Lotor’s image fades into the background for a moment, and Keith nervously takes in the sight of a bubbling, stewing surface of a pond—no, a marsh, deep in some shadowy wood undoubtedly within the Empire’s territory, or perhaps even beyond any provinces of Arus.  Even through Lotor’s magic transmission, a radiance of evil pierces the atmosphere within the safety of Allura’s underground chamber.

As the frothing, swampy mess of black algae and unspeakable filth boils upward further, a foreboding series of ripples passes from the center of the marsh.  There is a beat of silence in which the water falls still, the bubbles stop and the last bubble pops with improbable volume.

And then the marsh erupts.

A muddy fountain sprays upward, and despite the image being only a projection, everyone in the cavern flinches away from the blast of soggy debris.  A dark, slime-coated mass rises slowly, expanding to a size immeasurable from Keith’s perspective, but judging by the thick, knotted cypress roots around it… it’s big.  But the shape slows its upheaval, and the clumps of mud and moss and fungus and leaves trickle in thick, slow globs back into the marsh and unhurriedly reveal the creature underneath.

Leathery, clawed, bat-like wings winch high and then snap open to shed what’s left of the marsh’s clutches, and they billow menacingly even in the gloom of this mysterious, natural stew pot of darkness.  A steady, glowing pair of bloodred and bloodthirsty eyes peers through the lingering filth, and the eyes seem to hold firm with Keith’s.  A chill ravages his bones, and Branoc glows in turn with her fiery protectiveness.

He reaches out to brace himself and his Lion, watching as a second pair of eyes is set alight as well.  This pair is rounder, more frantic and searching as both sets of eyes rise with the heads into which they are set: the latter red eyes bulge from the spiral-horned shape of a sickly dark goat’s head, the first pair unblinking and unmoving deep in the skull of a scraggly female lion.  From behind these shapes of wing and head rises a shadowy, silken tendril bearing the slitted, foul green-yellow stare of a leery serpent.

The amalgamous form is then shrouded in a menacing fog as thick and foul as sewer sludge, the veil whirling and rising and pulsing to then be blasted away by the dragon-like wings.  Rising to its new, full height, wings at their ominous breadth, the beast’s are revealed to have to have merged into one uniform yet ungodly creature: the lion’s head, the goat’s horns, and the snake’s mouth.  

Though the vision is still mostly concealed by shadow, the silhouette is gruesome, grimy, and practically undead.  The monster unleashes a wailing, screeching cry—a sound that could only belong to a monstrosity damned that Keith knows at once he will never unhear.

“A chimaera,” Allura exhales as Lotor reappears, waving away the vision of the horrifying beast, casting the sight away as though it were only some bothersome insect and returning his projection to that of whatever chamber in which he’s been cowering.

 _What does this mean?_ Branoc growls; Keith has never felt her so unsettled as she asks both Allura and Lotor, _What have you done?_

“Haggar created this beast with the intention of slaying the Leonic Angels,” Lotor says.  “It is constructed of a foul magic only the impurest of souls could harvest—the opposite of the souls in which Amaria would reside.  And I think it’s my fault—if I had never conceived of the magic that you used to shatter the Leonic bond, Allura, then the witch would not have been able to mimic the spell to such an immense degree.

“But,” he addends without sounding as hopeful as he might be intending to, “there is still time—though I’m not sure how much.  Though the beast is evil, it is created around the same formulaic format of Amaria—it’s full strength cannot be attained without the equivalent of a Lionheart, and though Haggar created this monster, she cannot control it without binding herself to it.  Were she to do that, their weaknesses would be fused as one, and she would never risk such a vulnerability for herself.  She wishes to control the chimaera from the outside, but until it is bound to a separate soul, we have the time we need to stop her.”

“How can we trust you?” Keith blurts at once, mostly out of a refusal to process the situation moreso than of actual disbelief.  Something in Keith’s gut tells him this isn’t a ruse—it’s frightening and confusing, but Keith knows this is all true.

“Perhaps you can’t,” Lotor says, finally looking away from the princess to meet the half-Galran stare of Keith—a stare Keith has never been able to see reflected before.  Lotor is only half-Galra.  Lotor is distrusted because of it.  Is it wrong of Keith to admit this unsolicited nudge of potential true kinship?

Lotor reasons further with him as if noting this shift in Keith’s perception of him.  “But you cannot trust the witch either, and right now, our common goal is to stop her and this chimaera.

“Allura,” he continues, pleading with the princess once more.  “You and I must travel to Oriande, together, where I believe we will be able to reason with the Guardian, with Cosra himself if we must, and regain our rightful entry into the realm.  We can obtain just and honest means by which to break this horrible spell the witch has cast.  We can find a way to stop this monster before it has a chance to attack.”

“No, no way, I don’t like anything about this,” Lance mutters, still as resentful and mistrusting as he’s always been of the Emperor and his—or perhaps not his at all, Keith supposes—following.  “Princess, I—Allura?”

Lance’s concern draws everyone’s gaze to the princess.  Allura’s eyes have grown wide, staring into the middle-distant realm of calculation as she searches recollections or conceptions unknowable to Keith.  As if coming to some realization, the princess sighs and stares back to Lotor.  “I don’t think we have the time at all, Lotor.”

Lotor’s head tilts, brow furrowing in well-controlled yet apparent concern.  “What do you mean?”

“I think Haggar has already given the chimaera it’s dark Lionheart.”  Allura shakes her head, like she’s not sure or perhaps doesn’t want to believe her own suspicions.  But the way Keith’s heart stutters at her words tells him this has to be true as well: “Prince Matthew Holt.”

“He’s found the beast?”

“No.  But I think Haggar gave the beast a way to find him.”

 

* * *

 

Matt huffs.

“I know it seems trivial, Matt,” says Sam patiently as he paces the palace garden path alongside his son, “but the festival means more to the people than you might know.  It’s a time of gratitude, history and truce for our kingdoms, and a humble honoring of tradition and ideas—Don’t look so bored, son.”

The tension of their argument from the night prior has passed, but in its place is an exhaustion Matt couldn’t have prepared for underlying a dull throb in his head.  The pounding of it nearly drowns his father’s voice.

Matt blinks at Sam heavily.  “It’s not that I don’t think it’s important, I—”  He sighs, unable to even try fighting it.  “I mean, you’re right.  Morale is low, huh?  The people need it.  In fact, who am I kidding?  I love the Remembrance Festival.”

“You just want to placate me,” Sam retorts good humoredly.  He shrugs, hoping to be encourage his son further.  “Besides, you could ask Shiro.”

Matt nearly chokes on his own tongue.  “Wh—What—What do you—heh, um, why would I do that?”

For a second Sam is no king, only a father as he quirks a playful brow.  “Come on, son, we Holts, we’re a family of observers.  Analysts.  I’m not blind.”

“Blind?” Matt continues to sputter quite undiplomatically.  “Blind to wh—What would you even be—Ugh.”  He slaps a palm over his face in a final attempt at disguising the blood boiling in his face.  “It’s nothing—It’s not like—He’s just—he was, just, there.  When I went with Pidge.”

“You mean when you went to town—alone?”

Further stunned, Matt looks back to his father, questioning.

Sam rolls his eyes and tuts.  “I’m an observer _and_ a father.  You two really thought I was going to let you run off without anyone keeping an eye on you in this tense climate?”

“You _spied_ on us?”

“It was more like… discreet supervision.  I had Iverson assign some particularly stealthy guards to the task, but I didn’t want you to know because then you might have started acting careless,” he adds with a conspiratorial wink.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Matt tries to unscramble the thoughts that swirl and interrogate from inside his aching brain.  In a jarring flash, he unintentionally tries to recall every movement and word he’s used on every trip he and Pidge have taken “alone,” terrified and bracing himself for the unfortunate possibility he’s done something inevitably humiliating for his parents to use against him at any time.  “So… You knew I met Shiro.  And that I was—that we—you knew we met.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Sam offers, failing to observe Matt’s shame at his father’s casual admittance.  “And you could do worse.”

“We’re not even—It’s nothing,” Matt instinctively defends.  Then more tentatively he asks, “You aren’t mad?”

Sams demeanor sobers.  “I knew from the minute my brother crowned us that I’d never be able to keep you and your sister caged within our grounds.  And I didn’t want to, but…”

Thoughtful, Sam shakes his head.  “I just want to keep my family safe and happy.  That’s what I’ve always worked toward, but upon accepting this kingdom, I had a sinking feeling I wouldn’t always be able to do both.”

Guilt twinges within Matt’s chest, and he fixes his gaze on a nearby dewey iris.  “We haven’t made it any easier, I guess.”

“You absolutely haven’t,” Sam chuckles, “But in a way, I’m grateful, because if you two had start to become less troublesome, I’d begin to wonder if you were really mine.  I don’t care much for the formality and protocols myself, you know?  ‘Your Majesty,’” he scoffs.  “Do I really strike you as a ‘Your Majesty?’”

“Not so much,” Matt says, appraising his father.  “But I gotta admit, those blue ceremonial robes really bring out your eyes.”

They share a laugh, and Matt dismisses with an easy shrug. “Eh, Shiro won’t go; he’s not a dancer.”

“I never met Shiro myself, but I remembered hearing good things about him from Iverson’s training reports.  That was years ago now,” Sam muses, spectacled stare searching into a past surely far separate from Matt’s own recollections.  “I remember him telling me his best squire had simply vanished.”  A knowing twinkle dances in Sam’s eye.  “Interesting twist of fate for him to come back, eh?”

Matt’s voice falls flat.  “I thought you didn’t believe in that.”

Sam scoffs, but says nothing further aloud as his expression darkens, a somber contrast to the happy, wind-tousled blooms in the lush shade around he and his son as they take a seat on one of the intricate stone benches.

“But then, you would have known about Katie too, right?” Matt inquires further, embarrassment dissipating.  “You knew she was a Lionheart, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly.  My guards never followed you two past the kingdom’s borders—I didn’t want to risk any misunderstandings with anyone else’s guards.  But when they’d reported their suspicions of Katie entering the Altean borders, I could only assume it was for no small matter.”

He pauses, regarding his son warmly for a moment the way he’s made a lifelong habit of doing, and then his brow furrows.  “A lot’s going to change around here, isn’t it?”

“Not everything.”  Matt discreetly clenches his jaw in a fruitless attempt to ease his headache.  “For example, I will definitely never stop not wanting to arrange this party.”

Sam laughs, a welcome sound in any situation.  “Call me old, but I _do_ like the festival.  Sometimes it’s nice to engage in tradition for tradition’s sake.”

“Yeah, you’re old.”  Matt nudges his father good-naturedly.

“Besides,” Sam adds with a fond grin, “your mother never fails to impress in her ballgown.”

Matt smiles, rolling his eyes—only to regret it at once when the muscles twinge and he sucks the air in through his teeth with a wince.

“Matt?” Sam worries.

“It’s nothing, a headache; I think I’m just sleep-deprived.”  Carefully, he reopens his eyes to the light of day, blinking against the colorful, luscious blossoms and growths of the garden before the edges of his vision prickle in black and white.

Matt groans and raises a palm to his forehead; his headache seems to pound in every inch of his skull.  Momentarily he is distracted from the fast-growing agony by the hurried, clunky footsteps of approaching armed guardsmen.

“What is it?” Sam asks, sensing an urgency Matt can’t as he deals with his own immediate, skull-pounding stress.  Still, he fixes his gaze upon the tense faces of the two guards.

“Strange shadows in the distance, sir,” reports the younger, obviously more shaken one.  “Like thunderclouds, but thicker and lower.”

The older guard speaks firmly but without any indication she actually understands.  “My guess is the dark magic, sir, but the mass appears to be contained over a small, nameless village about three miles from the market district.”

“Shay,” Matt breathes in cold realization of where it is the guards are describing.  He grits his teeth; it’s as if lighting is sparking behind his eyes.  “We have to—ow—go.”

“Where’s your sister now?” Sam asks with renewed authority and worry.

“Your majesty, look!” exclaims the younger guard with a gauntlet pointing to the sky.  Sam and Matt follow his finger to see three speeding, shimmering forms blaze high overhead the otherwise cloudless sky in the direction of Hunk’s village—green and dark violet led by gold.

“Already on her way,” says Matt.

 

* * *

 

Hunk takes comfort in the familiar earthy scent of Shay’s family home.  He breathes in deep, relishing her grandmother’s favorite herb and spice loaf in the stone oven, trying not to betray his own fears as he attempts to reassure Shay.

“It’ll only be for a couple of weeks…. probably.  Give or take.”  Hunk’s parents and siblings had already accepted Hunk’s news of becoming a Lionheart with a mission at once—he’d introduced them to Kaerda last night, instantly adoring and trusting her—but Hunk wanted to wait to talk to Shay.  She tended to handle unwanted news better first thing in the morning, when she hasn’t had an entire day to build up her nerves already.

Shay wrings her hands under the table, nervously attempting discretion, but Hunk’s seen the habit enough times to recognize it with eyes closed.  She casts her eyes about the small hut as if searching for anything to use as a diversion for Hunk, but apparently nothing satisfies her requirements, so her eyes fall into her lap.

“The Leonic Angels are only ever called upon to manage chaos,” she says softly.  Then she meets Hunk’s stare, eyes sad and afraid, and Hunk chews the inside of his lip to keep it from quivering.  “You are not a fighter.”

It’s true.  Hunk’s family has only ever been one of craftsmanship—artisans, engineers, bakers, blacksmiths.  He comes from a line of makers, not breakers, and the impending sense of destruction and doom hanging over him since becoming the Yellow Heart has set Hunk in a near-permanent state of unease.  Some days the nerves are enough to send him retching.  Looking at Shay’s distress, now would be a contender for one of those times.

But instead, Hunk swallows against this dry mouth of his and speaks just as soft to Shay, encouraging himself as much as her.  “I’m not a soldier, but I’ll fight for what I have to,and, seeing as how it’s the whole continent that might be in danger, I think that’s a pretty good thing to fight for.”

Unconvinced, Shay rises from the shabby table and tends to the pot on the stove of stew that compliments her grandmother’s bread so perfectly.  “It is not that I do not have faith in you,” she says, angled back toward Hunk at the table.  After two years of Hunk’s family helping Shay’s learn the common tongue, she’s got an excellent grasp of the vocabulary, but her Balmeran dialect still chops her words some.  “I always do.  But I am just thinking of the enemy’s strength.  I have seen them destroy so many homes, so many families.  We came here for safety and hope, and we found that with your help.  So to think of you leaving, to think of you never coming back…”

Hunk tries to stifle an emotional sniffle and takes a deep breath as he stands to place a hand on Shay’s shoulder.  “I promise I’ll come back—we’re all gonna come back, and when we do, me and the other Lionhearts are gonna bring back that sense of home and safety to _everyone_ in Arus.”

 _This is it,_ Hunk thinks to himself with the sense of blood draining into his gut.   _This is the right moment, right?  To tell her?_

It’s like his tongue grows thicker with each passing second as he holds Shay’s stare, her eyes still bright even with such worry in her soul.

“Shay,” Hunk begins with a feeble crack in his voice, “I—”

But he gets no further as a rising commotion starts from outside on the village path, carried in through the open windows, the people murmuring and gasping.  Hunk and Shay exchange bewildered glances before leaning out of the window to investigate.

A small crowd has formed in the center of town by the shared, unpolished crystal well, all of them pointing worriedly at the sky.  Hunk directs his gaze in suit to take in the intimidating sight of a rolling and swirling cloud too dark to belong to any normal storm.  Still, the cloud rumbles and swells like a thunderhead, and Hunk could swear the cloud had eyes that were looking right back at the villagers.  Icy fingers claw their way down his spine and his hair stands on end.

Hunk and Shay run out to join the crowd, and Shay’s brother Rax appears to meet them, returning from his trip to the market.  “I think you should stay inside,” Rax says, no clearer on what’s happening than any of the rest of them.

Before Hunk can feign bravery and think of something confident to say, Kaerda’s voice enters his mind with a sense of cloudy urgency. _My Heart, you must leave and evacuate as many as you can._

_What is that thing?_

_A hunter._

_This isn’t the time to be cryptic,_ Hunk chastises.  He must fail to conceal the sudden fear gripping him from Shay and Rax, for they look to him expectantly as he tries to decide on what to do next.

 _A chimaera born of the witch Haggar,_ Kaerda explains.  Her aura is strengthening quickly, and Hunk’s positive his Lion is booking it toward him.   _It is seeking to either take power for itself or to take power away from others, and this village harbors Balmeran crystals.  I believe it will try to harvest them until it can find—_

A bolt of red lightning spirals and sparks from the cloud, crashing into the village well and sending the rubble flying into the crowd of frightful villagers.  Instinctively, Hunk uses himself as a shield for Shay and has to look over his shoulder to see the smoke from the impact building and writhing like some evil spectre, and now there’s no mistaking it--the entity is blinking at him with a menacing bloodred stare.

 _Until it can find what?_ Hunk asks Kaerda with reservation, unable to look away from the swelling dark mass, even as the people around him flee into their homes.

_A Heart._

The cloud shifts from black to a mossy, unpleasant green that pulses and bubbles like some unearthly stew, and the eyes seem to float freely within its mass—a mass that starts to thicken and spread like an acid fog, moving toward the open windows and doors of the village houses.

He and the other villagers would never be fast enough to outrun this evil mist, so Hunk shouts, “Get inside!” at the top of his lungs before herding Shay and Rax into their own fragile hut.  He tries not to permit immediate hopelessness at recalling the ease at which it had exploded and apparently devoured the crystal well.

Windows and doors closed to their fullest, Hunk, Shay, and Rax huddle in the center of the hut with a woven blanket over them so as to avoid any cracks this toxic-looking form might squeeze in through.  An ominous wind like the breath of cold death seems to seep in where the fog cannot, and Shay’s cooking fire is extinguished.  An eerie darkness settles.  Hunk doesn’t want to look, but he doesn’t like not being able to see either.

 _Kaerda?_ he seeks.

_Right here, my Heart._

A bellowing roar shatters the silence, and the recognizable crumbling of Kaerda’s magic masonry blasts through the village.  As if struck in pain, a howling screech reverberates through the entire stretch of fog.  Assured by his Lion’s presence, Hunk unveils himself, Shay, and Rax from their blanket shield and he runs back outside to Kaerda.

The Yellow Lion has summoned towering earthen spires to break up the wicked fog.  She dives gracefully and runs into her Heart’s embrace, the entity disrupted long enough for Michlo and Rajalti to fly up behind.

“Hunk, are you okay?” Pidge calls from atop her Lion.

“I think everyone’s fine!” he calls back with a frantic glance about the village.  “What’s going on?”

The glaring pinpoints of the creature’s stare lock on to the newcomers with a second, swelling shriek as the misty mass slithers around Kaerda’s spires to condense and darken.  Its movements make Hunk sick to its stomach, like a thousand beetles skittering in some unspeakable substance.  The swaths of inky evil spark and buzz, tendrils climbing and stretching into shapes that can almost be identified, only to have them whipped into pieces by Michlo’s feisty vines.

 _It wants to manifest,_ the Green Lion explains.   _We cannot allow it to find the prince!_

Hunk mounts his Lion, asking, “Wait, the prince?  You mean that thing is looking for Matt?”

Shiro answers gravely, “And it won’t stop until it finds him.”

“Hunk!”

Shay’s terrified voice wrests Hunk’s attention back over his shoulder to see her and Rax tucked in their doorway, her trembling visible even from midway into the sky.  The sudden cry also draws the attention of the wraith, and it appraises Shay with what must be a chortle.

Following her Heart’s instincts, Kaerda steers herself around and beneath his stride, her pelt smooths and hardens, and she barrels forward in her brazen form to send the putrid form aspray once more.

“Shay, you have to get out of here!  Lead everyone to safety!” Hunk pleads, Kaerda keeping sharp eyes on the fog as Rajalti dives into the shadows beneath Kaerda’s stone spires, successfully capturing a fragment of the fog monster in her own smoky jaw before disappearing.

In her panic, Shay shakes her head in spite of the blatant danger.  “I cannot!  What we have been through to come here, this...  It is our home!”

“You’re _my_ home!” Hunk declares.  “Please, go!”

With little time to spare, Kaerda returns to her normal state and takes to the sky once again.  The Black Lion reappears on the far side of the village in the shadow of the immense stone that forms a natural wall for the village.  She solidifies, and pieces of acid green plumes trail from her jowls, but they only recondense and rejoin their mother mass with a furious hiss.

Rax and Shay have begun guiding delirious villagers to a subtle path away from the threat.  As if feeling his stare, Shay looks up to Hunk, and they nod encouragements to each other with tight throats and watery eyes.

Michlo lands beneath the leering fog and slashes wildly, hissing something Hunk doesn’t understand but he’s pretty sure it’s some ancient vulgarity.  The shreds simply coalesce again with no indication of damage.

“How do we fight an enemy we can’t touch?” Pidge cries, frustrated as a dense limb of fog surges forward to barely graze the tip of Michlo’s evasive tail.

 _With a weapon that cannot be touched!_ exalts the voice of Irazu, and Hunk is thrilled to see she and Branoc have brought their Hearts along to the fight.  The Blue Lion barks her sound blast, and the chimaera-cloud squeals, shrinking so much that Hunk is almost relieved, but when Irazu draws a breath, it rises higher and denser than ever.

The red glare appraises these additional foes, searching surely for its Heart.  Failing, it gives up on the pride and reels back around toward the straggling villagers.  Arms of red and black lightning branch and pierce three separate homes with a sulfurous blast—three homes, decimated in an instant.

“No!” calls Shay, guiding a lost child after the other escapees.  Hunk recognizes the child he knows everyone in this village.  They’re his friends.

And Shay… she’s his family.

But maybe the chimaera knows that, because it again aims a strike at her and the youth where their fear has them frozen in place.

“Shay!”  Hunk is frozen too, watching from somewhere far.   _I’m not a fighter…_ is all he sorrowfully thinks.   _I can’t save anyone._

“Over here, pissbreath!”

Hunk never even heard the cloven hoof beats over the throbbing of horror in his ears, but a small army consisting of three Holt guards and the king and prince themselves as ridden up on their cervine steeds.

“Matt, no!” wails Pidge with her own terror.  “Get out of here!”

But Matt’s already dismounted his buck and dashes forward with an engraved javelin underneath a pair of flaming spears spiraling through the air.  The projectiles land with precision into the ground beneath the fog, and something in its makeup reacts to the fire and it combusts with a slow-motion explosion.

More collateral damage is done to the nearby homes, but Hunk’s regained enough of his senses in enough time to put Shay’s well-being first, cursing himself for having been unable to react faster.  Kaerda dives through the smoke and Hunk could sob with relief to see Shay and the little boy are all right.  Joining hands, he safely lifts them onto his Lion, and as the evil coalesces once more, he is stunned by the sight of it assuming the shape of a massive, jagged spear of shade that flashes with lightning in its turbulence.  Wailing and impassioned, Hunk can’t be sure, but it definitely sounds like its speaking a single, haunting word:

_Mine!_

The entity collides with Matt’s unarmed chest, and he’s swallowed by the ensuing vortex, unhearing of his sister’s agonized shout.

 _This is getting old,_ Hunk rues.

 

* * *

 

At first, there is only silence.

Matt winces; the piercing pain in his skull sucks the air from his lungs and sends him to his knees.  Risking a peek, his eyes open wide at the shock of cold night sky.  All around him flood black galaxies, filled with constellations and moons he doesn’t recognize.  Asteroids rain down around him, some falling upward with a metallic song, each taking on impossible colors only for it all to be swallowed by suffocating darkness.

The pitch-black stretch around him writhes with shadows that may very well be alive in their own right.  There’s a bouquet of mud and mildew and rot clogging his airways.  Matt dares take a deep breath in, the pain not lessening, but he adjusts to it almost at once.

“What is this?” he whispers aloud, the sound only to be swallowed by the breathing void.  Then, as if triggered by his voice, before him materializes blinking, bright red eyes, manic and hungry, paralyzing Matt where he kneels with their cross-shaped pupils.  He can’t even blink back.  Terror grips his insides and outsides, but for some reason he deigns to put on a brave face.

“Where am I?” he asks more firmly of the amorphous entity before him.  Around it, the shadows shift and part like the fog into a starry night, but from this night Matt finds no peace.  While darkness encompasses both he and the chimaera, somehow his mind envisages the monster’s hideous, uncanny features down to it’s slimy forked tongue and its sickly coat of fur, patches falling loose to reveal snakeskin beneath.

With the same theatrics as an executioner raising their sword, its wings unfurl.

No… Her.

 _Her_ wings.

Matt isn’t sure how, but he knows it is the chimaera that speaks to him in a voice of voices, a scream of whispers, a moaning of hisses.  Every word echoes itself, sending a pulse of chills down Matt’s spine, riding the shrouds of acid green smoke that threaten to choke the shaky breath he’s managed to regain.

_There_

_you_

_are,_

_Dark Heart._

She cackles.

_You belong_

_to me,_

_now._

“What—Who are you?” Matt challenges, trembling and weak.

The chimaera’s horned head tilts as if thinking.  Hellish eyes blink.

_She..._

_...named me..._

_...Velqa._

The torn, ragged skin of Velqa’s lips allows her to grin.

_And you_

_are the one_

_I have been waiting for._

.:.

** End of Act I**

****.:.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on tumblr @sewerpigeonart :^)


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